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pheonixgrave · 9 months

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Ignore It (18+)

This is really my first time posting a story to here, I usually only do it to AO3, but this is what I made this account for. Might as well start using it?

WARNINGS: Heavy smut, corruption kink, mild blood kink? (not sure about that one) Fem Tav, hetero relationship, stress fucking, not beta'd, angst, use of cunt

Smut blow the cut, please enjoy!!

Trekking through the wilderness was exhausting as is. But the bickering? That was starting to drive Tav crazy. Vampire this. Shar that. Eating magic this. Demons that. It was always something else. No matter what she did, they were always at each other’s throats. Oh the irony in that. Maybe the Illithid worm wasn’t the worst thing. Maybe this, the arguing, was the worst thing to happen to her. If she had to hear any Githyanki phrases in the next thirty minutes, she might kill Lae’zel herself. Tav was at her wits end, ready to beat her head against the nearest tree just to see if that got rid of the tadpole. It would be a win-win if it also got everyone else to shut up.

They didn’t even let up at camp. Sure, they all had their respective tents and spaces. But the glaring. Oh, the glaring! Not a moment of peace before bed. She sat near her bedroll, closer to the fire Gale had set up. A tankard in hand, her back to the more vocal members of the party. She could practically hear Lae’zel glaring at Astarion. And Shadowheart wasn't exactly quiet about her distaste for him either. It’s not like there was an Infernal being less than ten yards away from him. Or a Warlock just across the flames.

She very quickly downed the rest of her drink before tossing the tankard near the flames. Curling up in her bedroll, she tried to block out all of the noise and barbed words. It was currently taking everything in her to not scream at her first three companions. They had all been through something insane and deadly. Why could they not have it in them to simply get along? It felt impossible.

Fortunately, her sour mood was noticed by her party. Not that she’d realize it at the moment. The biggest point of contention, Astarion, managed to get the courage to walk up to their fearless, albeit grumpy, leader. He nudged her with his foot. Which he immediately realized was a bad decision. Taz shot up to meet his eyes in the blink of an eye. “What do you want?”

The bite in her voice was unmistakable. But he knew how to handle it. “I want-”

“Don’t bother,” she cut him off. She never cut him off. She was more than happy to let him talk at her sometimes. The final glare she gave him was intense as she stalked towards the lake, away from everybody else. Astarion watched her walk away. Did he only watch to see her hips sway? Absolutely. But that didn’t change the fact that the Bard needed to relax. He smiled to himself before following her. “Didn’t I say don’t bother? I’m not in the mood to be your midnight snack tonight.”

He didn’t fail to match her step. “Why darling! Do you truly think so little of me?” He pouted.

Tav just sighed, “Take your antics somewhere else for now, Astarion.”

“Will you just sit down?” He pushed on her shoulders, forcing her down.

Much to the rest of the party's dismay, she did trust the vampire. Whether that would lead her to her own doom was yet to be seen.

Her knees crumbled under the pressure as she fell on the ground. She shot another glare in his direction but that didn’t seem to dissuade him from his plan.

“You’ve been far too stressed today, darling.” He purred in her ear, his hands never leaving her shoulders.

“Astarion?” He continued to move her body until she was on her stomach.

“Shhh, do you trust me?” Gods, that man was always far too much for Tav.

“Should I?”

He chuckled as he readjusted himself so he was sitting on the back of her thighs, straddling her. It took every ounce of self restraint he had to not immediately rub her ass. Gods, it always looked so perfect when she walked. He took a deep breath before applying pressure between her shoulder blades. He felt her body tense before slowly relaxing.

It wasn’t what she expected. Was he giving her a massage? His hands worked slowly from the base of her neck to her waist. And-oh? Did she just moan?

“It’s alright, my dear, I love hearing you.” He smirked before continuing his work. He continued like that for a few moments, just enjoying the little sounds she was making. “Let's get you out of these clothes, shall we?”

She pushed him off her, rolling on her back and sitting up. “So that’s what this was? Just an excuse to get me naked?” That fire was coming back.

“Darling, if I was trying to get into your pants, I’d try flattering you more first. Unfortunately, it is difficult to get this right over your clothes.” He sat next to her, staring out at the water, just watching the water crash against the coast. “I was taught how to do this a long, long time ago.”

She stared at the rogue before swallowing. The tips of her ears and the back of her neck were flushed. But she did trust him. He would say if this was untoward. Right? With a shaky breath, she sighed but said “Alright.”

Astarion watched her shaky hands start to untie the little knots holding her bustier. His mouth started to water, but he had patience. As she shrugged the last of her tunic off, she covered her chest and turned the other way. He did manage to lay down her tunic so she wasn’t just laying on the dirt anymore. She laid herself in front of him. He could feel how shaky her breath still was as he climbed on top of her once more.

He resumed his previous work, addressing the knots in her lower back. The elf’s skin was so soft, so warm. He found himself just getting lost in the feeling of someone trusting him. It was a strange feeling but a welcome one.

Tav, on the other hand, was getting lost in his touch. His cold hands worked their way up her back and she liked it far more than she thought she would. What started off as little moans slowly became louder. It didn’t help that he was an expert with his hands. And her mind started to trail off to things that were unbecoming of a lady.

But Astarion could feel her thighs clench. No matter how she tried to move without him noticing too much. Gods, he could almost smell her arousal. Over 200 years old and here he was, still trying to keep himself from getting hard. But then she moaned his name. And what little restraint he had disappeared. He put his hands near her head before leaning down towards her ear. “This wasn’t an excuse to see you naked but you are making it very hard to not act on my…baser impulses, my dear.” He felt the shiver go down her spine.

“Astarion,” she moaned again before grinding back on him. And she got what she wanted when he flipped her on her back without moving from his spot. And there she was, laid out in front of a vampire spawn with her chest bare. She looked up at him with wide eyes, unsure how to go from there. But him? He had far more experience than most. He moved faster than she thought. He captured her lips as he slotted himself between her thighs. And just like that, his hands were everywhere.

It was like he couldn’t decide where he liked them best. Her throat? Her breasts? Her hips so he could grind against her? He just couldn’t decide. And she tried so hard to keep herself quiet. But then he moved his lips down her neck, his fangs brushing over the still healing marks from the night before. He thought about feeding for a moment, but something far more filling had his attention right now. He moved until he had her nipple in his mouth. Flicking the nub with his tongue, his hand went to massage the other one. He wasn’t gentle. No one that knew Astarion for who he was thought he was a gentle man. It was rough but Tav didn’t seem to mind.

In fact, Tav seemed to love it. Her back arched into him. “Astarion!” And then her hands were on his shoulders, urging him downwards.

And he didn’t want to fight it. He kept moving, biting and nipping at her stomach. And then he got to her trousers. He sat up, panting and looking wild. His fangs were bared and he was panting hard. He threw her legs on his shoulders, tossing her loafers somewhere behind him. And then he went to work on the knots holding her trousers up. Which he made very quick work of. He shimmied them off her, making sure to keep her underwear on for a moment. He stripped off his shirt before returning to her mouth.

He needed her.

“Astarion, please, touch me.”

He was quick to snake his hand towards her cunt. And even quicker to find the spot that made her gasp into his mouth. Gods, he could do this forever. He made his way back to her neck, lapping over those same marks. Her hand tangled itself into his hair and the other gripped his shoulder with far more strength than he expected. His cold hands were a sharp contrast to the warmth of her. Her head was thrown back against the ground as she gasped for air. She was shaking.

It was already so much for her. She had been so pent up and so angry. But the way he worked her clit? It was a way no one ever had before. Not even herself. In fact, no one had ever touched her like this before. Nothing past shy kisses or heady glances. If she had known, maybe she would have lived her life a little differently.

But once her back arched and she cried out his name? She clenched around nothing. She felt so empty now and he hadn’t even gotten close yet. He chuckled as best he could, “Already, darling?” he muttered against her neck.

“I-” she gasped once he slid a finger inside her. “Astarion,” his name rolled off her tongue and he swore he wouldn’t mind hearing her do this forever. He could still feel her cunt clench around his fingers and he groaned. He couldn’t wait much longer but she was enjoying herself. “I’ve never-” he curled his finger before adding a second one.

“You’ve never felt this good before?”

“Done this before,” she managed to gasp out before he curled his fingers again.

His hands stalled for a moment and she whined. “I’m to be your first?” She nodded, wriggling her hips, trying to will him to move again. “My dear, why didn’t you say anything?” He removed his fingers and she cried out. “Shhh, I have to make a good first impression, don’t I?”

He practically ripped her underwear off. She was a virgin. He couldn’t lie that it made him even harder to think about being the only one who got to touch her. But he had to take care of her if he wanted to be the only one.

He buried his face in her cunt, holding her thighs open with his hands. Tav covered her mouth to hide her cries of his name. But it was his name on her lips. His fingers going right back inside her, where they belonged. His lips on her clit. He groaned again when she came, this time right on his face and hands. He lapped at her for a moment longer and started pistoning his fingers in and out. He couldn’t help but watch her cum make a mess of his fingers.

“Astarion!” She cried as she came on his fingers yet again. “Please!”

“Please what, my dear?” He wiped her juices off his chin before closing the distance between them. His lips hovered over hers, those red eyes glazed over with a hunger. Her eyes fluttered open. She smiled at him, all too happy to offer herself to him. She bared her neck. And dive he did. His fangs pierced her neck once again as he drank. He knew better than to drink more than his share but he wanted nothing more than to keep drinking as she wrapped her bare legs around his waist and rubbed her cunt against the fabric of his trousers. He released her neck and practically shredded what was left of his clothing.

He leaned back for a moment, taking in the sight. This elf, a noble from Waterdeep, was laid out before him. Freckles dotting her skin and her blonde hair spread out like a halo before him. It would be angelic if not for the blood slowly trickling out of her neck. “Astarion,” she whispered. Her voice was full of something he couldn’t quite place. Something he had pushed aside a long time ago.

All he could do was nod before he lined himself up to her. As he slowly slid in, he swore that this was the closest he could get to heaven.

Astarion wasn’t small. Tav could feel his cock stretching her cunt out. Why did no one ever tell her it could feel like this? She gripped his shoulders and wrapped her legs around him once more. She sighed as he finally finished. “Gods above, you’re amazing.” She whispered, almost too afraid to say it. Too afraid to say the other things on the tip of her tongue. Her eyes traveled down his body to where they were connected before looking back up at him.

“Shit,” he panted, withholding every emotion that came flooding through him. Instead, he snaked a hand underneath her thigh, lifting it up before he began to thrust.

She thought just having her inside him felt amazing. But this angle had her barely able to breath. She threw her head back and arched into his body. It was all she could do to hold on to him as he upped his pace. Tav could barely gasp out his name as she tried to look at him. His eyes were shut and his hair was more than perfectly tousled. “Beautiful,” was all she could get out before she tightened around his cock.

“Shit!” He followed closely behind her, seemingly unexpectedly. They laid there for a moment, just feeling each other before he slipped out of her. She cried, a palpable sense of emptiness. He watched her breath for a few moments longer, secretly enjoying his cum starting to drip out of her cunt. Normally, he’d leave. He’d get up, put his clothes back together and leave. But Tav? Something told him he couldn’t. So he grabbed his tunic and wrapped her in it before carrying her to the water.

He tried not to notice her nuzzling his neck. He tried to ignore the praises she said. He tried desperately to ignore the draw she had on him. He tried to ignore her moan as he set her in the shallow water, gently taking his tunic off her shoulders. Instead, he sat next to her and let the water wash away the previous activities.

#Astarion #baulders gate 3 #bg3 spoilers #astarion x tav #astarion smut #fem!Tav #god help me #this speaks for itself

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hyunsvngs · 6 months

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kinktober !

The first thing you notice is the muffled sounds of the forest. Wind whistling through long, slender trees, shaking even more coloured leaves onto the floor beneath you. You laid there for a while, contemplating. How did you end up here? How did you wake up in this area, a place you’ve never seen before?

Beneath the normal sounds of the wilderness around you, there’s other noises, too. The distinct sound of metal clanging, and another more human-like whistle. It sounds like it’s human, but something about the noise has you questioning the truth. It sounds otherworldly, something that you can’t quite place yet you’re aware there’s something unsettling about it.

Your boots press into the ground when you stand up, sliding around in the slightly damp mud. The cold Autumn air has ensured that the floor isn’t safe to walk on, especially not with the freshly biting essence of ice coating the crunching leaves. You decide you have to walk anyway. How else are you meant to get out?

You felt like you weren’t even sure you wanted to get out. Something about the forest was unsettling, creating a burning pit of anxiety in your tummy yet almost feeling at home. It was like the feeling of being inside your home at night with all of the doors unlocked. The cold nips at your arms, bare apart from a t-shirt. You haven't exactly been planning on going out tonight. What had you been doing, before you woke up here? You couldn’t remember, even upon scratching your temples and closing your eyes, really trying to get just a slight memory of what you’d been up to.

Your foot slips but you manage to catch your ground. You begin to walk, unsure of where exactly you were going, only knowing that you needed to find something. If you were only looking for the source of that jarring whistle, then so be it. It had to be something. There had to be another presence between these trees, be it human or uncanny. It feels like it’s been hours since you awoke on the leaves, and you turn back, looking at the bed of moss that you’d arisen upon. It’s almost arranged to be like a den of sorts, comfortable perhaps for someone a lot smaller than you.

It’s only been minutes. You check your watch, only to find that the time hasn’t changed since 4pm today. It’s dark outside. There’s no way in hell that it’s still 4pm, perhaps closer to midnight - maybe even later, but you walk anyway. You walk and walk, ignoring the way your arms have turned a weird shade due to the cold of the air. It’s too cold.

Eventually, you think you may have found something. The forest forks into three separate routes, one straight ahead of you and one either side. The route ahead of you looks to lead to a more flourishing bank of land, bright crimson and ivory mushrooms alluring you into their domain. Daisies and other fauna lead up the way, dewy with fresh water and well taken care of. The route to your left is haggard, leaves hanging off of trees and branches bending like long, winding fingers against the dark night sky. To your right, you’re alarmed to see the presence of random strips of metal adorning the ground, some with dents and some pristine.

Do you…

Keep going ahead?

Turn to your left?

Turn to your right?

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peachesofteal · 7 months

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Floorplan

Steve Rogers/female reader 2.1k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI. Explicit sex. Nomad era Steve. Reader and Steve have a baby together, mention of pregnancy. Possessive Steve Rogers. Praise kink. Breeding kink. Daddy kink. Dirty talk. Orgasm delay/denial. Could be considered toxic. Steve has issues with boundaries. Angst. Steve Rogers is keeping a secret.

Steve Rogers is keeping a secret.

It’s heavy, heavier than most, this you know without a doubt, because you carry it as well, it’s existence a variable in your life that you never expected, never even imagined, if you’re being honest.

A variable that ties him to you, indefinitely. For eternity. For better or for worse, without the papers or proof, the only exception being the small infant that sleeps in the room down the hall, while her father has you pinned against the bed, fingers digging into your thighs, splaying your body wide for him to do as he wishes, because you’re so fucking weak.

“Steve.” You hiss, word drawn loud from your mouth when the tip of his tongue works in tandem with his fingers, playing your clit easily, hips eagerly rocking against his face.

“Pillow, honey. Don’t want to be too loud.” He murmurs a reminder into your cunt, crooking a finger up against that spot, the sweet spot that waits for him inside your body, working you into a mindless haze, building you up closer and closer to an orgasm until you’re panting, curve of your spine shining with a glimmer of sweat. “That’s it, that’s it. Almost there.” He hums, pulling away at the last second to peek up at your face, beard wet with you, absolutely soaked with your arousal. It glistens in the low light of your bedroom, and he smirks before going back to his meal, dotting gentle and slow kisses down the inside of your thigh that make you whisper desperate pleas.

“Steve, please, don’t-“ Don’t stop. Keep going. Please, please, please.

“Shhh. I know.” He coos. “Just need to get you ready for me sweetheart, that’s all.” And, if you weren’t so lost in the haze of your pleasure right now, you’d probably have something sharp to say in response. He always does this. Brings you to the edge over, and over, makes you wild for him, ache for him, just so he can pluck your strings perfectly, harmonize your need with his since your mind won’t budge, his possession of your body always tipping you over the cliff and into his arms, every time, without fail.

Even a sailor lost at sea needs an anchor.

And he is lost, has been, for some time. Since Bucky. Since Tony. Since he broke everyone out of the raft and went on the run, dipping in and out of towns and cities across the globe.

That’s how you met him. That’s how you brought him home one night, that turned into two, that turned into more, and more. Your greed, your desire overriding your good sense because he was leaving soon, and he wouldn’t be around, and it’s all just some fun- I can keep a secret, Steve, you don’t have to hide from me. You’re safe with me. We’re not even together, just enjoying each other’s company, yeah?

You never thought you would survive it, loving him. Loving a man who’s not a man at all, who’s lost in the wilderness, who’s relearning everything about himself and the world all at once. Cast out by his country, his own namesake. Living on the run. Living with his band of misfit toys.

So, you kept it to yourself, even though he didn’t. Even though you heard him whisper it to you in the middle of the night, when he thought you must be asleep. Even though it felt like obsession, possession, both ends burning the midnight oil. You kept it to yourself, kept the smile on your face, kept the swell of your emotions at bay.

If you don’t love him, it won’t be as bad, when he goes. When they move on.

Then, Steve Rogers did something he didn’t even know he could do. Something he didn’t intend, he claims, something he was told should be impossible.

He gave you a baby.

He gave you a baby, and everything changed.

You’re just about to spit out something insistent, something needy, as he calls it, when you’re being moved, flipped over to your belly with no warning, the warmth of his chest bleeding across your back. His beard tickles against your ear, mouth pressing sweet kisses to your temple, and you can smell yourself on him, the proof of your weakness for him all over his face.

“Here we go, good girl. I’ve got you.” The solid weight of his cock lays between you, the spill of his pre come smearing against the inside of your thighs and then inside of you, the heavy, thick head pushing in little by little, your mouth drooping wide on the pillow.

“Ahh-“ you groan. It bites, the stretch, the sting of it all, and he knows, he loves it, and you do too (even though now you never tell him, because it’s not like before, not like when you weren’t the mother of his child, not like when things were simpler, when you could have walked away, when you weren’t falling down the rabbit hole with a man who has lost his entire identity, his country, his life-)

“God, honey. What a sweet little pussy you have for me, huh?” His teeth find the skin of your neck, below your jaw, and they graze with a nip, light pressure to punctuate his ownership. For me. For me, for me, for me. “Just perfect. My perfect, good girl.” You try to bite back the moan that rises in your throat but it’s impossible, and he’s no fool, the curl of his smile imprints across your skin, cock sawing in and out of your body like you were made for it.

He says you were, of course. That you were made for him, and for no one else, and he doesn’t care what happens in the next year, or two, or ten. You’ll always be his. He’ll always come back. He’ll always be here.

“What will you do if… when you go home, to America?”

“I’ll bring you both. Put you up in a place. Or maybe I’ll buy you a house, honey. With a white picket fence and everything. Give you another baby. Give you two more babies.”

“Steve-“

“No, no. Don’t.”

“Steve.” You whine, still mouthing the pillow, fingers tight in the sheets. You clench down around him, unable to keep yourself from barreling towards your orgasm any longer, and he whispers encouragement in your ear, soft praise of how good you feel and how wet and are you going to come for me, honey? You going to give a me a good one? Let me feel you squeezing my cock with it?

Your first orgasm comes with ease. So does your second.

Your third comes with tears that he laps up across your cheek, as too many words get stuck in your throat. I love you. I hate you. I don’t want you here. I don’t want you to leave.

It builds, each time he slips inside the house at night, each time you come home from work or errands and he’s sitting on the couch reading a book, or sketching, just waiting for you and Emmaline. It builds and builds, when he’s got you bent over the kitchen table, cheek pressed to the wood, sinking his cock into your body with an unmatched fury, breathing claims of ownership against your skin. Mine, for me. My girls. My baby.

“Maybe I’ll give you another. Fill you up until you’re overflowing, get you pregnant.” It’s an overload, a killshot straight to your heart, your nervous system, and it engulfs you in fire, your body clenching around his cock involuntarily, like all it wants is to be bred by him, fucked deep with his come until you’re round with his baby, again. And he knows it, knows it too well. Sees the way your eyes shutter, can feel the way your body begs for it. You want to come, and he’ll torture you with it, dragging it out until you’re breaking apart. “Go ahead, tell me honey. Say it, do you want it?”

“Y-yes, please. Please, daddy.”

Everything you carry, all the tangles, the snarled mess that exists in your heart for him surges, and his hand sneaks between the mattress and your body to cup your belly, palm warm like a brand. Like it’s always been, now, and before-

He holds you from behind, hands flush overtop your navel, stroking the roundness of your stomach with longing affection.

“How’re my girls today?”

“Tired.” You shift, and he hums in response. You’re about to snap at him about being here in the first place, remind him he can’t just use his key whenever, let himself inside whenever, but his hands drift to the bottom of your belly and lift, robbing you of all the lectures and rebuttals as the pressure on your spine is instantly relieved.

“That better sweetheart?”

He’s deep, so deep that it burns, head of his cock punching against your cervix, hitting that spot repeatedly. You gasp, burying your face in the pillow, smothering the shriek of your moans. He’s close, you can tell, you can feel it, the way his muscles start to become rock, the strike of his hips against your ass moving you further up the bed until your neck is craning to the side to avoid the headboard.

“Here it comes honey, lie still, just- just let me- let me give it to you.” It’s a stammered slur being pushed out through a too tense jaw, restraint burning in his muscles, arms cradling you like a precious, rare gem to be coveted, something more important than duty and a shield.

Later, he’s still in your bed, even though he said he wouldn’t be.

He’s heavy, and hot, so hot that you don’t need a blanket when he holds you. You find it fascinating, even more curious that your own child runs hotter than normal too, more evidence of the clear truth that both you and Steve are working vigilantly to hide and disguise.

“You should sleep.” He’s insistent, and your lashes flutter closed with a big breath.

“You don’t have to stay.” He wants to. He’s stubborn about it. It’s the reason he gave for appearing on your doorstep earlier.

“Why didn’t you call? I would’ve come sooner.”

“It’s not like I know where you are these days.”

“Don’t. Don’t… start this.”

“She has colic, Steve. There’s not much you’re going to be able to do, we just have to ride it out.”

“I don’t care. I’m here.”

He was the one who had managed getting Emmaline to sleep earlier, rocking her in his arms until she settled, sweet little baby finally succumbing to lullaby of sweet dreams in her dad’s arms.

He’s so good at it, taking care of her, understanding what she needs and when, that you hardly sputtered a protest when he clicked her door shut and pulled you in for a kiss, pushing you into your own bedroom and laying you out on your back, a hand pinning your stomach to the sheets, another gripping your thigh wide for him, his strength forcing your body into a trap, where you were powerless. Stuck.

“I guess I gotta put both my girls to bed, right? Isn’t that what you needed? Just needed daddy here, honey?”

“Close your eyes, sweetheart. I’ll get her, when she gets up.” The fire of his skin makes everything in the room feel heavy, feel heady, and it’s so easy to slip into your imagination to pretend, dream about a world where your relationship wasn’t shattered, where Emmaline’s dad wasn’t just a shadow in the dark half the time he’s in the house, in her life, in yours.

“You can’t just keep coming here, acting like everything is normal.” You whisper to the ceiling, but he doesn’t respond, just hums into your skin, deaf to your sense, your logic.

You’re right. You know you are. Why can’t he just see that?

“Steve.” You pick at him. Pushing and pushing, careening closer to a breaking point, an inevitable end when he will sigh with the weight of exasperation, and then ease himself out of bed and disappear into the night.

“This is the normal, for now.” He says instead, a rebuttal that takes you by surprise, a change in his usual course. Fingers stretch over yours with a yank, pulling you closer into the bend of his body. “But it won’t always be like this. We’ll go home soon.” Home. It sounds nice, but feels like a threat, considering this has been your home for years now, and this was where you were raising Emmaline, and this is where you had settled into life, started a career, put down roots.

“Steve, I’m already home.” You remind him and he chuckles softly against your brow.

“Are you?”

#steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers fanfiction #captain america #captain america x reader #avengers fanfiction #mcu fanfiction #marvel cinematic universe #steve rogers smut #peaches writes #steve rogers x female reader #mcu #nomad!steve #nomad!steve rogers #chris evans fanfiction

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multi-fan-dom-madness · 6 months

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Midnight Masquerade - Hunter

Chapter Summary: The bottle lands on Hunter, and you get a classic monsterfuck.

Chapter Warnings: minors be gone; werewolf!Hunter x f!reader, kinks: predator/prey + knotting; desired fear, discussion of consent and rules, thrill of the chase, hiding, oral (f receiving), slightly graphic description of werewolf transformation, pain, unprotected PiV sex, multiple orgasms, creampie, lots of cum, breeding kink if you squint and hold it sideways, mentions of blood, one instance of near dub-con (reader says “i can’t” and Hunter says otherwise), some aftercare

Word Count: 4.0k (i'm not even ashamed of this one)

A/N: please please heed the warnings on this one. while there is a discussion of consent at the beginning, once the werewolf appears, there is no more discussion. I will say right now: reader wants everything that happens. the fear reader experiences is akin to the desired fear one gets from going through haunted houses or watching scary movies. it costs nothing to keep on scrolling if you don't think you're the intended audience for this fic.

also yes i'm posting this on the full moon. and yes it's the Hunter's Moon. i planned this >:)

...Hunter.

As the bottle rocks to a halt, you glance up to meet Hunter’s piercing gaze. He’s always been extra perceptive, always had the ability to make you feel like he’s seeing through you, but tonight, with magic coursing through him, his eyes pin you in place. A smirk tilts the corners of his mouth up.

Your breath shudders out of your chest in anticipation as you let your eyes wander over his costume-turned-reality. Ragged lumberjack plaid stretches over his broad shoulders, torn in places to reveal the continuation of his skeleton tattoo. His teeth have sharpened into points, bared in a grin as the smirk on his face widens. Even his hair, usually so neatly held back by his bandana, is fluffier, longer, wilder.

The strobing, dancing lights reflect yellow eyeshine in his gaze, and you shiver. Arousal already begins to pool in your lower belly, molten heat stirring faintly. Hunter’s nostrils flare as he breathes in. The way his eyes flutter lets you know that he can smell you even amidst the press of sweaty bodies, spilled alcohol, and sickly sweet fog. A whimper falls from you, unheard by anyone except him.

Hunter twirls a fresh shot of clear alcohol between his fingers. “Well, mesh’la?”

“U-Um,” you say. The rest of the troopers at the table don’t even bother to hide their smug smirks. “Yeah. Let’s do this.”

Downing the shot, Hunter slams the glass on the table, shaking his unruly curls out of his face. Then he stands, his broad shoulders and narrow waist drawing your gaze down. Already you catch the hint of a bulge outlined at the apex of his thighs. Your mouth waters, body coming alive with electric desire, and you resist the impulse to squeeze your legs together.

Following his lead, you stand as well. He tucks you against his side and leads you through the crowd. Pressed against him, your senses are flooded with the furnace-like heat he radiates, the unique scent of spice and dirt that fills your nose, the tingling sense of controlled danger where his claw-tipped fingers scratch ever so lightly against your waist. You swallow heavily. Kriff, this is going to be a fun night, and you’re grateful once again to whoever sent you the invite to this party.

To your surprise, Hunter steers you towards the bar. With gentle pressure on your lower back, he guides you to one of the leather stools, but remains standing himself. He leans his forearm on the sticky bartop next to you, his other hand resting on the swell of your thigh.

“Need some more liquid courage, Sarge?” you say with a teasing smile, your words sounding much more cool and collected than you actually feel.

He barks a short laugh. “Hardly. No, I would rather keep this experience between us from start to finish. I...” He trails off, eyes studying your face before drifting down to your body, sitting stiff and wound up before him. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “...want you to know what you’re getting into.”

“And what is it that I’m getting into?” you ask. You lean closer to him, so close you can feel his warm breath puffing over your face.

“An experience that requires a few ground rules.”

You nod for him to continue.

“One: when I catch you, don’t run,” he says.

The bottom of your stomach drops out with excitement. “‘When’?”

The grin he gives you is wolfish—there’s no other word for it. His teeth bare in a smile masquerading as a snarl, eyeshine glinting once again. “That’s right.”

“W-What’s rule two?”

“If you change your mind, you fight as hard as you can. And hit the panic button on this comlink.” He slips the small metal device from his jeans pocket and holds it between clawed fingers. “I don’t know how much I’ll be able to stay in control if I transform.”

Gripping the comlink with shaking fingers, you locate the panic button and, with a nod, tuck the device into your pocket. “Rule three?”

Hunter tilts his head, seeming to look through you again. You fidget in your seat until you realize he must be listening to your body—you become intensely aware of the way that your heart hammers against your ribcage, pulse racing, and of the heat scorching through your veins only to pool deep in your core. When he refocuses on your face again, your cunt clenches around nothing at the hungry look in his eyes.

“Rule three,” he echoes, “don’t hold back.”

He tilts your head up to capture your lips in a searing kiss. You moan in surprise, body melting with little resistance into his touch. His teeth nip at your bottom lip, not enough to draw blood, but enough that the quick sting sends a jolt of pleasure through you. Resting your palms on his chest, you delight in the way his muscles flex and how he seems to quiver. Like he’s holding himself back, despite his order for you to do the opposite.

You break away with a gasp. Hunter nudges your face to the side and, growling, presses his nose to the pulse point below your jaw. You gasp as he inhales your scent.

“Fuck, mesh’la,” he rasps, his words only meant for you, “you smell good enough to eat.”

You bite your lip to keep your moan contained, still aware of the bartender shooting you a mildly amused look and of the dozens of people around you right now. As if he can sense you holding back—because he probably can—Hunter bites your neck.

“Rule three,” he husks.

“I’ll follow your rules if you follow them, too,” you gasp out. “Don’t you dare hold back, either.”

He pulls back from you, hooded eyes meeting yours. Whatever he searches for in your gaze, he must find, because a slow, predatory grin spreads over his face.

“Deal,” he says. “I’ll give you a head start. And then I’m going to fuck you, wherever I find you. Understood?”

You can’t stop the whine that slips from your throat. “Y-Yes. Understood.”

“Good.” He steadies you as you slide off the stool onto shaky legs. “Now run.”

Your brain is several seconds behind, still stuck on the barely-contained growl in his voice and the way your skin shivers with goosebumps, but your body reacts immediately. Legs pumping, you take off through the crowd. Half-assed apologies tumble from you as you knock into people. You have no idea where you’re running to—you don’t even know how much of a head start he’s giving you. You just know you have to hide. Every instinct in you screams to run, to get to safety, to evade the burning gaze you can feel on your back even as you duck and weave between troopers.

You dash through an open doorway and skid to a halt, chest heaving with adrenaline. Before you lie several choices: a branching hallway filled with doors, an exit dead ahead, or a stairwell climbing up to a second-story exit. Glancing over your shoulder, you don’t see Hunter following yet. Part of you, a depraved, wholly needy part of you, wonders how much you should even try to hide—but an even more depraved part of you urges you to make it a challenge. How long will it take for him to find you if you try?

Mind made up, you take the stairs two at a time and shove against the push-bar so the door swings open. But you don’t step through it. Instead, you let it shut on its own, then you turn and, emboldened by equal parts thrill and desire, you brace your hands on the metal bannister. Heaving yourself up over it, you try to keep as little contact with the railing as possible.

Your stomach lurches as you drop the ten feet to the permacrete flooring. Thankfully, no joints sprain, and you don’t feel any pain in your shins from the impact.

Unharmed and feeling pleased with yourself, you bolt through the ground-floor exit.

Outside, the cool night air kisses your skin and wicks away the sweat that’s already gathered along your forehead. Head turning in either direction, you frantically search for someplace to hide. There’s the crystal forest, sure—but you don’t fancy getting poked with a thousand tiny shards like the ones you walked across when you arrived. You could sneak around the building and run back to the tiny spaceport. But that feels too...predictable. Why run when you can try to hide in plain sight?

To your right, a ladder leads up to the second-floor rooftop. Grabbing onto the cold rungs, you pull yourself up, hands and feet flying. You reach the top and, panting, survey your options.

This rooftop is barren, save for the doorway you assume leads to the stairs you leapt off. But the next building over has several clusters of chairs and tables, tucked into the shadows of a decorative art piece that twists with elegant curves towards the cloud-studded sky.

You go to take a step when an idea strikes you. You rip off your jacket, baring your arms to the chilled air, and drape it over the edge of the rooftop next to the ladder. Maybe the extra body heat, sweat, and scent clinging to the fabric will draw his attention and throw him off?

You slink to the closed doorway, then leap past it. You really have no idea how much of your scent you’re leaving behind, or what clues he’ll use to find you, but leaving as few footprints behind seems like a safe bet. Once you’re past the doorway, you break into a sprint again. The next-door rooftop isn’t too far, and after a relatively easy jump, you stumble toward the table tucked closest to the art piece.

As quickly and quietly as you can, you crawl under the small, square table and arrange the chairs to block your body from view. It’s not perfect, by any means, but it’s the best you can do.

And it’s not a moment too soon. The door on the other rooftop slams open. Hunter’s dark silhouette stalks out. Even from this distance, you can make out the way his head twitches back and forth as he tries to sniff out your trail. Clenching your jaw, you do your best to calm your labored breathing and urge your racing heart to slow. Anticipation trembles in your limbs.

Hunter jogs to the ladder and picks up your discarded jacket. He leans precariously over the edge of the roof, searching, and for a moment you think you’ve won.

The wind shifts.

Cool air sighing past you, you shiver as the sweat dries on your skin. A moment later, Hunter’s head snaps up, and he looks straight at you.

His teeth shine as he bares them in a dangerous smile.

“Oh kriff.”

You gather your feet beneath you before you remember rule one: don’t run. All you can do is sit, frozen and shaking, beneath the would-be safety of the small table. Hunter prowls toward you.

When he makes the jump between rooftops, you whimper, scrabbling backward until your shoulders bump against the swirling art piece, deeper into the shadows. You know it won’t help, but the darkness is comforting. Cold seeps into your bones even as your body alights once more with fresh arousal. Kark, have his shoulders always been so broad?

He comes to a stop directly in front of the table you hide beneath. For a moment, you hold your breath, and the world around you seems to freeze. What is he waiting for?

The table and chairs scatter with a crash as he yanks the furniture away from you.

You yelp, surprised fear thrumming through your veins. Above you, standing tall and imposing, Hunter cocks his head at you. He tosses your jacket in your lap.

“Nice trick,” he says. His voice grates against your skin, causing you to shiver. “Woulda worked if the wind hadn’t changed.” Then he shakes his head. “Well, it woulda worked for a moment. Could smell your cunt all the way over there.”

He lowers until he crouches in front of you. In the faint starlight, his skull tattoo stands in stark relief, a terrifying visage of death. Your lips part as you pant with need.

“Fuck, you have no idea how good you smell,” he murmurs. His dark gaze rakes over your cowering form, his tongue wetting his lips. “C’mere.”

Clawed fingers wrapping around your ankles, he yanks you towards him. You yelp, body stretching flat, and he uses your momentary surprise to tear your pants from you. The fabric yields with a loud rrrrrrip, only to hang in tatters from your waist.

“K-Kriff,” you swear. “Hunter—”

He shushes you gently. “Let me taste you.”

He hooks one claw under the flimsy elastic band of your underwear and, with a sharp tug, the fabric snaps twice against your skin. When he peels back the ruined undergarment, you both groan at the faint, shimmery line of slick that pulls away with it.

Like a man starved, Hunter presses your legs wide open and buries his face in your wet pussy. All concerns about your ruined clothes flee as soon as he licks through your folds. You cry out, pleasure rippling through you as his warm mouth envelopes your center. Propping yourself up on one elbow, you twist the fingers of one hand into his curls, holding his head against you. Your hips rock in pure reaction. Hunter growls, the noise vibrating against your clit. His eyes pierce yours, dark wells of lust and need. Your mouth falls open as you moan. The sounds of your pleasure bounce off the sculpture behind you.

“F-Fuck, Hunter!” you squeal as he sucks on your clit.

He drags his nose through your folds, inhaling your sweet scent. “You’re soaked, mesh’la. Did you like running from me, huh? Liked running from the big bad wolf?”

“Ye-e-e-es!” you keen, throwing your head back as he fucks you with his tongue. Deep in your belly, the molten lava of your desire begins to solidify into something more solid, something that promises bone-melting pleasure.

Overhead, past the art installation, you watch with hazy eyes as the clouds drift lazily across the sky. Steadily, the night grows brighter. Though your upper body remains in shadow, your legs, and with them, Hunter, become bathed in silvery moonlight.

Hunter’s grip on your thighs turns painful. His claws press a little too hard against your soft skin. Wincing, you snap your attention back to where Hunter’s mouth closes around your cunt. A moan punches out of your chest as you watch his eyes blink rapidly, shifting from lust-blown to golden and shining, alight with an intelligence that isn’t quite human.

He shoves himself back from you, stumbling away, his entire body convulsing. “D-Don’t run,” is all he manages to grit out before—

Snap!

You gasp, unable to do anything but watch with wide eyes as Hunter’s body violently contorts and transforms before you. His limbs elongate, knees bending unnaturally, ribs cracking as a new form tears itself out of his skin. Fear and desire chase each other through your body; you don’t know which one you feel most intensely.

With a deep, sonorous howl, the Hunter you know is replaced by a hulking wolven beast. Crouched on two legs, the werewolf pants heavily, staring down at massive, clawed hands. Hunter’s clothes hang off the beast in rags, shredded by the way his body swelled and grew during the transformation. But what strikes you the most is his fur. Dark gray fur, shot through with white streaks, falls in a shaggy coat all across his body. With a jolt you realize the white fur matches exactly the skeleton tattoo Hunter bears—in his wolf form, the tattoo is still humanoid, reflecting the person now trapped within.

“H-Hunter?” you ask, voice shaky and tentative.

The wolf snaps his attention to you. Those bright, intelligent golden eyes lock onto yours as a snarl, animalistic and deep, tears from him, his teeth bared. His snout, rough and ridged, twitches as he scents you. Your legs remain open, slick folds still bared and glistening in the moonlight.

Dropping onto all fours, the werewolf sniffs the air again. Then, quicker than you can fully process, the wolf pounces. His claws dig into your sides as he drags you closer once more, a startled scream tearing from your throat. The sound only seems to encourage him. Growling deep in his chest, Hunter—the werewolf—he lowers his head and licks a stripe up your pussy.

You gasp at the odd sensation. His tongue is long and rough against your sensitive skin, but you find it strangely pleasurable. A shudder runs up your body as the wolf laps at your dripping core; the heat simmering in your lower belly blazes back to life, a raging inferno of need blinding you to the fear of what this wolf really could do to you if he wanted. But you don’t dare move within his grasp.

You fight to keep your hips still as you watch the werewolf lick your cunt. Gasping for breath, you catch sight of something—something thick and red, hanging between his thighs.

A groan claws out of you. “F-Fuck. Hunter, please.”

Whether the werewolf understands you or not, you’re unsure, but he withdraws his mouth, the fur around his lips soaked with your juices. You heave a shuddering gasp as he hooks one large hand under your ass, angling your body. His other hand wraps around his large, throbbing cock. Watching in fascination, you moan as the slim, pointed tip drags through your soaked folds.

“Please,” you whimper. “Please.”

With another low growl, Hunter thrusts into you, burying his thick length to the hilt. You shout, pleasure and pain biting through you in equal measures, as he splits you open. Walls fluttering around the intrusion, you go boneless, forcing yourself to relax.

Hunter sets a brutal, punishing pace. His cock reaches parts of you no one ever has before, stretching you in ways that you’re sure will ruin you for anyone else. High, heady moans tumble from you with every sharp thrust of his hips, your nipples pebbled in the cold night air. One of your hands squeezes the soft flesh of your breasts, the other snaking down between your bodies to circle around your clit. Pleasure spikes within you, orgasm drawing closer as you play with yourself.

“G-Gonna—” You let out a choked moan. “Gonna cum.”

Maybe the wolf does understand you, because he bares his teeth in a terrifying display, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. Spit drools onto your heated skin. Gathering some of it on your fingers, you return to your clit to rub frantic circles there.

Hunter adjusts the angle of your hips by a fraction, and you cum with a scream as he drives into that one devastating spot inside you. Back arching off the permacrete ground, your vision whites out as the wolf fucks you through your orgasm. Wave after wave after wave of pleasure crests over you, until you’re sobbing from overstimulation.

Pushing with weak arms on the wolf’s chest, you somehow manage to get him to pull out of you, to give you a moment to catch your breath and recover. The wolf looms over you, panting and drooling. His cock twitches when you reach down to stroke the strange appendage.

“Good boy,” you mutter, leaning up to press a kiss to the tip of his nose. On a whim, you reach up to scratch behind one of his ears. The wolf’s eyes slide shut, a pleased hum vibrating in his chest.

Then his instincts seem to kick back in. With a huff, Hunter flips you, his nails scratching across the soft skin of your tummy. Chest pressed to the ground, ass in the air, you whine brokenly as he pushes his length into your tight heat once again. You rock your hips, meeting him thrust for thrust, mind melting into incoherency as he fucks against that shattered piece of heaven in your cunt. A second orgasm begins to build in your lower belly, and you desperately chase it, circling your clit once again.

Hunter is getting close as well. His incessant growls are steadily becoming higher, more akin to whines than snarls. His claws dig into your flesh hard enough to break skin; tiny rivulets of blood slide down your front. You don’t care, just so long as he makes you cum again. Tears form in the corners of your eyes as your body winds tighter and tighter, orgasm threatening to pull you under at any moment. In your slick cunt, Hunter’s cock pulses, and seems to bulge.

Then, without warning, he buries himself in you as deep as he can go. You cry out, body shuddering with pleasure as his cock—swelling and knotting—presses against your walls. You cum on his knot like that, squealing in delight, nerves obliterated and frayed as he cums with a howl. Knot pulsing, he paints your insides with ropes of hot cum that just don’t seem to stop. He fills you to the brim, and then some—you can feel his hot spend dripping down your thighs where it leaks out past his cock.

Slowly, Hunter begins to transform back into himself. His fingernails shrink, pulling the tips from your body. His fur dissolves into ash, and now against your back, his sweaty skin sticks to yours where he gasps for air. But his cock remains knotted in your cunt, both of you swollen and sensitive.

You regain the ability to talk before he does. “H-Hunter. Hey. You okay?”

He hums, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades.

“I need a verbal answer,” you say between pants.

“I’m—fuck, I’m good.” He pushes himself off you with shaky arms. But he remains kneeling behind you, locked in your tight walls. “Did I hurt you?”

“Not in any way that I didn’t like,” you say. “Honestly kind of forgot about the panic button. Not that I wanted to use it,” you hurry to add. “That was... I don’t even have the words. ‘Amazing’ doesn’t cut it.”

He chuckles, and the vibrations make you both moan. Your pussy clenches weakly around him. With warm, human fingers, Hunter squeezes the flesh of your ass and rocks you gently back and forth.

“Oh stars,” you breathe. “I can’t, Hunter, it’s too much—”

“You can,” he murmurs. His hands help you move, each gentle thrust loosening the knot still swollen inside you. “You can take it, mesh’la.”

Keening, your hands scrabble for purchase. Fingers wrapping around his wrists where he holds you, you crane your neck to look back at him over your shoulder. His face is sweaty, hair plastered to his skin, and his lips are flushed and swollen. His eyes are half-lidded and still dark with lust. In a word, he looks debauched. When his gaze meets yours, he smirks.

“That’s it,” he encourages, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your hips. “Just like that.”

You cum again, preening under his praise despite the way your aching body screams for rest. This orgasm is slow, bone-deep and debilitating in its power. But the extra gush of slick is enough to push Hunter out of you. You both groan at the sensation of separating.

“Look at that,” Hunter murmurs. When you glance back again, his eyes are transfixed on your cunt. His cum, all of it, wells up and spills out of your spent pussy. Seemingly without realizing it, he gathers some of the sticky substance and pushes it back into your cunt with his thumb.

You hiss. He withdraws his hands, then tugs you up onto your knees and cradles you to his chest. “You did so well, mesh’la.”

“You, too, Hunter,” you mumble against his skin. For a long while, the pair of you remain there, wrapped in a comforting embrace, until you chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” he asks.

“Our clothes are ruined,” you say. “How are we supposed to go anywhere?”

He laughs with you, despite not having an answer. That’s alright, you think, it’s an excuse to get him into one of those rooms downstairs....

Ragu: @the-hexfiles @thorsterstrudle @dystopicjumpsuit @clonemedickix @freesia-writes @littlemissmanga @wolffegirlsunite @anxiouspineapple99 @wings-and-beskar @sinfulsalutations @523rdrebel @sunshinesdaydream @moonlightwarriorqueen @sev-on-kamino @starrylothcat @deejadabbles @starqueensthings @mandos-mind-trick @idontgetanysleep @eyeluvmusic21 @wizardofrozz @mythical-illustrator @sleepycreativewriter @dreamie411 @bobaprint @imarvelatthestars @originalcollectionartistry @droids-you-are-looking-for @goblininawig @lune-de-miel-au-paradis @9902sgirl @jedi-hawkins if your name has a strikethrough, I can't tag you so check your settings! (if you'd like to be added or removed, click here!)

#tbb hunter x reader #hunter x reader #rhiwrites #midnight masquerade #hallowkink 23 #werewolf smut #werewolf x human #the bad batch x reader #tbb x reader

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shimaen · 3 months

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Sy shizun au

Sy transmitting as a random rogue cultivator many years before the protagonist is even born.

He starts looking for the protagonist but in the way he finds a homeless child that just looks like him, they are not the exact same, but they could easily pass as family. He ends up helping out this child, he felt strangely attached to him, bringing him to his lil cabin near a forest, one of his many hidden safe zones.

The child, Sj, comes in a package with his older brother? Yqy. The 3 of them don't start as teacher and students, much less a parental figure, Sy is not a child, but he must be just 5 or 6 years older than them, but Sy becomes a safe space, he provides them with basic necessities and more.

They grow up respecting him, and he teaches them what he knows, and could be useful. Thing is, the system determines that his work in that era is done, and needs to send Sy to fix the next problem, so one day, 4 years later after meeting his 2 lil gremlins, he goes into the forest, just a normal fauna and flora exploration for Sy, he goes alone with almost nothing, after all he is not going far, they all know this.

But Sy doesn't come back.

They wait until midnight

They are still searching by sunrise

They are losing hope after a week

They think that he must have abandoned them, it was too good to be true, but it still doesn't makes sense, Sy left most of his stuff in their little cabin, all his money, his sword, his trinkets, his fan. If he abandoned them, why did he leave all his stuff too?

They don't want to think that he may have died. It isn't fair. They would prefer that Sy just abandoned them, but they know (they hope) that Sy isn't like that. Years pass, and the plot somehow reconnects, Sj becomes a peak lord, and Yqy the sect leader, they gave up searching a long time ago and just accepted the most probable "truth" Lbh enters the story, and in one of his night hunts, he separates from the group.

He ends up in a section of the forest that looks a bit wilder, somehow more mystical. He reaches a big tree, ancient looking, it almost looks alive, and in the middle of it, there is this crystal, ancient amber filled and pumping with energy, maybe the beating heart of the forest? And there is something in the middle, a figure seemingly sleeping, it looks like his shizun, but not quite, maybe a bit younger, even Lbh doesn't realize until he has his hand pressed against the crystal, blood from his earlier wounds accidentally smeared against the amber, and the figure opens its eyes.

Haha funny au Lbh helps a really confused and out of it Sy out of his amber cocoon and brings Sy to the were they were staying just to discover that his teammates went back to the sect without him So imagine the shock of an Sj that was going to look for his student when he Sees this child carrying a full adult that seems to be unconscious, he was going to scold lbh when he actually sees the face of the man, and it feels like time stopped

#svsss #shen yuan #shen jiu #shen qingqiu #yqy #yue qingyuan #i like my found family aus #also find it hilarious that sj and yqy vs lil bunhe #also tree sy!#thinking if the tree parts affects him in some way

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xaphrin · 6 months

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Midnight Promises Broken at Dawn

It's Halloween! (just barely) and this is part of the colab I was working on with @inverted-typo. We decided to go with an Eros and Psyche theme.

There's so much more that's set to come out, because (of course) it got way out of control. I am aiming for the next part in two weeks, and I will post it to AO3.

Thank you so much for everything, and for being patient!

---

Damian felt the tug of someone breaking the seal that lined the wilderness of his estate. It was like a spider web thread snapping in the back of his mind, the delicate fiber straining until it broke and hung limp and loose against someone’s skin.

Curious.

The seal was designed to create a barrier along his sacred land so that wandering humans would have the sudden urge to panic and flee in the opposite direction. Anyone who managed to break through was either very powerful or very stupid. Or, maybe even a little desperate. After all, desperation bred fools.

He glanced up from the sketch he’d been working on and stared out the window into the dark gray of a blizzard at twilight, a mild annoyance creasing his brow. Damian may have been the grandson of a god, and have some minor powers of his own, but even he couldn't command the weather when it was like this.

Unfortunately, whoever had broken through his barrier would be allowed to remain close to his land until the storm calmed down.

Damian frowned and let go of a heavy sigh, glaring at nothing in particular. What an annoyance.

Raven could at least say that she had been given some small graces, even tiny ones. She had managed to harvest a few late mushrooms and set up additional traps in the woods farther from her cabin. It would have been better to have the traps be a bit closer to where she was currently taking shelter, but the storm had moved in faster than she anticipated, leaving her food sources scarce, and her choices even moreso.

The wind whipped overhead, shaking snow loose from the trees and scattering it over her shoulders. The noise was somehow both ear-deafening and eerily quiet. It shook her bones, but somehow never made a real sound.

With a curse staining her lips, she picked her way back along the path she created, making her way back to the dilapidated cabin she was taking shelter in. Her feet couldn’t move her fast enough. She felt strange being on this land, as if she wasn’t supposed to be here. It felt like a tug in her chest, a panicked feeling that made her breath short and her body shiver hard. But necessity drove her this far away from the cabin, and her options were growing more and more limited.

"Someday," she muttered to herself, brushing snow-wet hair from her eyes, "I am going to learn to live with others. In a society. With people."

It seemed more like an empty promise than a real one, and it was one she made at least three times a week. It had been well over a year since her bastard of a father had thankfully died, but his heavy shadow remained on her shoulders - oppressive and domineering. Her world should have opened up and grown larger with possibilities and friends, but the fingers of his crazed fear sank too deep into her own mind. And if she was honest with herself, she doubted she would ever be free of them.

For the protection of the world, you must remain alone. You are a stain here, Raven. Nothing better than a whore of Babylon.

Fuck him. Cursing his grave (wherever it was), she kicked at a rotting stump and made her way back to the abandoned forest ranger cabin that had become her temporary home. It didn't have much in the way of modern comforts, but at least it had a hand pump for water outside, and an outhouse. After some of the places she had stayed with her father, four walls around her while she did her business was practically palatial in comparison.

Raven made her way through the snow, following the marks she had left in the trees to show the path. The storm continued to rage around her, growing more and more violent and bitterly cold with each minute. Even the shelter of thick, ancient pines couldn’t shield her forever. She pulled her worn coat tighter around her, and eventually found her way back to the cabin.

When she stepped over the threshold, the pitch black of night had fallen, and the storm eased marginally. Small blessings, even if they were a little late.

Walking carefully over the packed dirt floor, Raven stoked the coals still smoldering in the fireplace, and sank down into the ragged remains of an armchair by the hearth. She looked through her ever thinning supplies until she located her last can of soup. Sighing, she tucked it near the coals of the fire, warming what was left of her food. She wasn't sure when she'd be able to go on a supply run into town, and she didn't feel great about the traps she set today, so she was going to have to make this last as long as she could.

Raven pulled herself close to the fire and tucked her thin blanket around her legs, feeling every muscle in her body ache with exertion. She was weary, and not just from the daily struggle of trying to survive. She was weary of being so utterly alone and isolated. Her father, in spite of all his bullshit, was at least some small amount of company. After he died, she had no one.

Her chest grew tight, and grief filled her until it was so heavy she wasn’t sure if she could bear the weight. A cold tear spilled over her cheek and she wiped it away with her sleeve. She wasn’t sad for his loss, but was sad that she had no one to turn to - no one to help her move forward in the world. She was, for all intents and purposes, alone.

Raven watched the coals' red glow fade, her mind drifting in and out of consciousness as she slipped into a half-sleep, where her dreams seemed far too real.

"A human. How pathetic."

Raven grit her teeth against the insult. She might have been a pathetic human, but she would survive out of spite, and that was a threat.

Her head rocked to the side, staring into the dark shadows of the half-rotted cabin. Hearing phantom voices and seeing unexpected things became a usual occurrence after being alone for so long, but this voice sounded different than it ever had before. "You're not any better…" She paused, trying to think of something to call this new hallucination. “…you ass.”

Very clever.

The was a soft grunt, proving that it was obviously not insulted by her weak name calling. The shadows moved like smoke, staying tight to the deepest part of the darkness. Raven felt something staring at her, as if trying to understand what she was. She turned her head and stared into the rafters, hearing the creak and groan of the roof under the weight of snow.

“What are you doing out here?”

“It’s public land. I am public.” She closed her eyes, trying to let herself fall deeper into sleep, but the shadows kept talking, much to her annoyance. Sometimes she wished her phantoms would just shut up.

“Not all of it is public land. You stepped past those boundaries.”

“Oh, please.” Raven snorted. “Will some absurdly rich recluse really know if I trap a few hares on their thousands of acres of unused land?”

The shadows responded with a strange breathy noise, as if it wasn’t sure whether or not she made a valid point.

“See?” Raven let her point seep into her tone. “Even you agree.”

There was another long pause, and the darkness spoke again. “Perhaps there is a reason to keep you off the land.”

“To make sure that their investment of land holdings is properly protected?”

“Hm.” The shadows moved like ink in water, spreading out against the walls as the coals’ light dimmed even farther. Finally it moved closer to her. “You seem to think you know a lot for someone who lives in a stolen hovel on public land.”

“Circumstances don’t always dictate the totality of a person.”

The shadows didn’t seem to know what to make of that comment, and stayed silent. Raven closed her eyes and let her body sink into the remains of the armchair, wrapping the threadbare blankets tighter around her. She shifted onto her side and faced the fading heat of the coals. The world grew heavy and dark, and Raven felt her body finally succumb to exhaustion, as she slipped into a dark, empty dreamless sleep.

But, she swore she heard one last word from her half-dream of shadows along the wall…

“Curious.”

She haunted his thoughts and that infuriated him more than anything.

This ragged slip of a human, who squatted in abandoned cabins and had the gall to tease him. Him. The grandson of a god, and a demigod in his own right.

And yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. He wondered if the traps she set remained bare, if she had managed to find food or warmth, and even if her firewood was dry enough. It was unbearable. Every moment he wasn’t completely focused on something else, she entered his thoughts.

Against his better judgment, Damian found himself visiting her again a few nights later, unable to stay away. He thought that if he saw her again, he might be less enamored by her - at least, that was what he kept telling himself.

She was interesting, even if he didn’t admit it out loud. There was something about the way she spoke to him that piqued his curiosity. It was as if she thought he was an echo or a dream, and not real in any sense of the word. He had spent most of his long life being surrounded by those who worshiped his grandfather, and while Damian appreciated the reverence and kowtowing, it felt almost refreshing to have someone treat him… normal.

Almost.

She should still have some verneration for him. He was technically still a god.

When Damian slipped into the shadows of the abandoned cabin, he found her floating in that space between awake and sleep where things seemed almost real. Her eyes lifted to the dark corner where he stood, trying to discern his shape from between the shadows.

“You came back.” Her voice was a slow drawling sound that slid over his skin like a spell. “I thought you’d disappeared. It’s been a few days since you’ve haunted me.”

Part of him wished he hadn’t returned here, and he had forgotten all about the trespasser on his land. But, here he was, watching a strange woman sleep on a rotting armchair. “You’re still here…” He trailed off, leaving the question unspoken in the air.

“Raven,” she muttered with an annoyed sigh. “I would have thought you would have at least known my name since you insist on following me around and invading my inner peace.” There was a long pause and he thought she had fallen asleep. Finally, her words slipped from behind her lips. “I’m here because I have nowhere else to go.”

He blinked and continued to watch her, letting her words settle. There was a story there he wanted to know, but he wasn’t sure if he should pry. Prying meant that there was a part of him that cared about her, and he didn’t. But… perhaps he was a little curious.

“You have no home?”

“Even if I did, it would not be a place I would go back to." Raven sighed, as if this conversation was exhausting her. “And, if I can't find strength in myself, then who else could I possibly find strength in?”

Damian was about to say something brave and gallant, but he stopped himself. He was not the type of person to offer platitudes and words of encouragement, and he certainly wasn't the type of person to offer help in any sense of the word. He liked his solitude and his privacy, and the only reason he was here was because this human was upsetting his perfectly manicured life.

Still…

“Seems to be a lonely life.”

“It is.” She gave a dry laugh, her blunt answer cutting through the weight of the room. There was a sorrow that clung to her, and a longing for something more than she had now. “After all, I'm talking to the shadows on the wall about my lack of home.”

He wondered if she would believe him if he said he was real, but chose to keep silent instead.

“You should go away, you’re keeping me from my well deserved sleep. You’re like an annoying fly buzzing around my head.” She gave a halfhearted wave, as if shooing him away, before she turned her face to the warmth of the fire. Her breath deepened, and Damian stood there for a long while, watching this curious human sleep.

There was an odd, uncomfortable stirring in his chest, as though his heart was waking up after a long, deep sleep.

His lips twitched in annoyance, and he glanced around the small cabin, taking stock of what she owned. It was so little, that it seemed as though she had simply walked out of a place one day with whatever she could carry on her back. A few clothes, a threadbare blanket, a backpack that had certainly seen better days, and…

His eyes rested on several beat up paperback books poking through the holes of her bag. That seemed like an odd choice, having books when she seemed to have such limited resources in the first place. Damian turned that observation around in his head for a moment, unsure of what to make of it.

Ultimately, it didn't matter. Mortals were of little concern to him.

Raven included.

Ignoring that strange flutter in his chest, he slipped back into the shadows and disappeared from the cabin.

#damirae #demonbirds #damian and raven #I WROTE A FIC #HOLY HADES #eros and psyche au

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historiaxvanserra · 16 days

Text

A small snippet of something I've been working on! (yes it is dual POV but you'll see why in good time, babes) it's a whole ass novel that's why! a preemptive acotar 6 re-write, if you will!

I'm just testing the waters to see if anyone is remotely interested and because I'm really excited about this one! I think maybe, at least until my teacher training year is over this is going to be my main (only) writing focus other than original work. Like I said its a BIG undertaking but I'm really hyped for it.

AZRIEL'S POV

She had first come back to him on a night like this. In flashes of violet and onyx; painted in the seraphic light of a bleeding star. Haunting and prophetic.

It’s his first Starfall in Illyria in half a lifetime and he’s alone; far from anywhere that feels like home. That’s when he feels it. A cataclysmic vein of power that reverberates through the Illyrian wilderness. So profound that he swears the mountain trembles in the wake of it. Some dark star streaks across the sky; bleeding silver and cerulean into the velvet abyss that saturates the mountains in Ramiel’s long shadows, and for the first time in a long time Azriel finds himself uttering her name like an oath.

There in the heavens, and saturated in the darkness at the edge of the world, he finds her again. Azriel reaches out a scarred hand and tracks the star as it arches across the cosmos in veins of violet and cerulean, his fingers ghost a smattering of silver stars that form a constellation in the shape of her. She calls to him. In a language so old, and lost to time, that only the earth itself might infer some meaning from the whispers of power on the westward wind.

A secret contained between him and the sky.

The Solar of Rhysand’s mother’s cabin is reminiscent of the Temple of The Mother in Velaris; sacred and saturated in the technicolor light of the stained glass crescent moons that curve across its high-domed ceiling. A myriad of indigo and amethyst; incandescent with flecks of gold and jade as the crystals inlaid into their center catch in the light of a thousand silver stars. This room is a testament to the craftsmanship of the Illyrian people and on nights like tonight that domed ceiling is the lens through which he sees the world.

The stars continue their ascent across the heavens into the small hours of the morning and Azriel watches every last one, hoping to catch one more fleeting glimpse of her as she crosses over the constellations stitched into the very tapestry of the sky over Illyria. At some point as the brightest stars burn blue against the black Azriel finds himself reclining into the makeshift bed in the Solar of the cabin as his body, weary and worn, begins to flirt with sleep.

That night when he dreams, he dreams of her.

Azriel waits beneath some ill-fated sky as the scene unfurls from the dark corners of his memory. Like a hand reaching through the veil of the dark-- and he reaches back.

The sky is a thunderstorm, heat swelling beneath the skin's surface as the clouds begin to gather in hordes and Ramiel’s dark shadows veil the world as he knows it in a shroud of black. The seraphic blue light of the three pointed star cuts through the blanket of the dark, offering Azriel a reprieve from the suffocating blue-darkness that swallows everything in its wake. Drawing peace from the shadows.

In his dreams, the storm-streaked clouds loom ominous on the darkening horizon as midnight encroaches on the Illyrian wilderness and Azriel finds himself wading into the stretches of the wild, emerald forest. A voice, disembodied and cruel, calls out to him from the emerald wilderness. It’s laden with malice and dark intent as it whispers to him on the westward wind.

The road ahead of him is muddy and foxgloved and there's this ache. It’s a dull kind of agony that cuts through his chest and makes a home in the spaces between his ribs. And there is a girl. She’s screaming into the vacuous twilight beyond and the stars seem to flicker in and out of existence each time the howling wind catches in her throat. Uncertain feet carry him over the threshold of the encampment and every now and again his feet feel a tremor in the muddy earth-- a recollection of all that he had lost.

The atmosphere is oppressive and the acrid smell of smoke and rain linger there, clinging to the half-eroded stone and decaying wood. This cabin, once warm and breathing itself to life with the symphonies of her gentle laughter and Azriel’s mournful song. But this place had been abandoned long ago. Now, it lies desecrated, amongst the climbing ivy and dying jasmine. The cabin breathes an unsteady breath each time the wind catches in the hearth; it’s aching and heaving like every breath might be its last.

Azriel’s shadows convulse and contrort violently. Like ghosts in his periphery. The world goes dark for a moment and the war drums echo in the night air. Something ancient and long dead calls his name.

Azriel.

Through the blanket of the dark all that he can see are her eyes, glinting and violet in the unforgiving light. It’s then in the light of the waning moon that his eyes map the constellations of scars that adorn her body. All silver and incandescent as though she is wreathed in starlight. She comes to him like night; veiled in shadow and shook up with the sound of the storm. She looks half-divine and Azriel thinks that she must be both, ghost and Goddess. Lithe and brutal. The apparition of some ancient deity. There is something wild and sacred in her eyes. Some strange melancholic beauty that almost brings him to his knees.

She had been lovely in life, Azriel thinks. But now. Now she is fucking annihilating.

The storm on the horizon shakes the earth and the world is afire with forked lightning as it illuminates the velvet night. She waits beneath the same storm-streaked cloud and a ripple of devastating power shakes the earth beneath her feet. The world falls silent as she falls to her knees at the foot of the hearth and Azriel swears he can hear her praying. The prayers that fall from her lips are in some ancient tongue; the words are unknown but the sentiment is clear.

She’s searching for salvation on unholy ground, like a shadow unearthed from its grave. Lightning cracks and the cabin heaves its dying breath and Azriel holds out a scarred hand to her.

She reaches back.

Azriel wakes with the first light, the mournful song of his shadows severing his tenuous connection to the Otherworld. It’s an old melody; sung softly to babes while still in their swaddling. Its words are uttered in the Old language and much of its meaning has been lost to time but Azriel still recognises the tragedy embedded into its verse. His own mother had often hummed the words of that ancient melody in those hours when he and her were reunited in the darkness of his fathers house.

The shadows sing of The Fates; the severing of sacred threads and a blue star that reigns over the valley that heralds the coming of the Old Gods. It is a song that maps the history of his people, brutal as it might be. The shadows tell the tale of Enilaus' defense of Ramiel and a temple beneath the great mountain. Azriel clings to each word, searching for some semblance of meaning in the shadows' cryptic verse.

With each passing hour Azriel finds that his return to Illyria brings with it a strange sense of remembrance; of things passed, of things long forgotten.

#acotar #acotar x reader #azriel x reader #azriel x you #WIP

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yourheartonfire · 10 months

Text

"Everyone says I shouldn't join the pack," the protagonist said. "They say you're..."

Well. They said a lot of things, eyeing the trio with great suspicion. Co-dependent, they whispered. Intense. A bit odd. They didn't fit in with the rest of the town. They were wilder, more wolf-like, than any of the other packs that the protagonist had ever come across.

"And what do you think?" the other werewolf asked, amused. "What do you want?"

You. Them. The pack.

The answer was achingly obvious; an inescapable tug.

It just wasn't sensible, and the protagonist had always been that.

Prompt courtesy of @the-modern-typewriter 's Patreon!

TW: reference to a past traumatic attack.

The pack came for the protagonist on the night of the new moon. It was barely 5pm but in the winter Northwest woods it might as well have been midnight. A crunch of truck tires on gravel, a sharp rap at the door, and three shaggy haired outlines on the cabin porch silhouetted against the starry sky and the deep, delicious darkness of the pine forest.

"Hey lone wolf," caroled the call from outside. "Don't you think it's time we all hashed this out?"

The protagonist gritted their teeth behind the door.

"Consider it an informative, mutual interview," the extrovert werewolf said. Purred, the protagonist would have said, if it weren't the wrong animal family. "After all, whether you join or not, you're still a wolf in our territory."

That... was true. It was deal with them now or deal with them when the moon changed. The protagonist steeled themselves, put on the kettle, and opened the door.

A few minutes later a pack of wolves were sprawled out on the protagonist's living room furniture, cups of Lemon Zinger in hand.

"I don't mean to offend, I'm just not..." The protagonist took a breath. "I didn't move out here to find a pack."

"And you're not required to join," the first one said smoothly. Clearly the speaker of the group. "There's enough woods for us all if you want to stay independent. The question is, ah..."

"The question is, is that what the wolf wants?" cut in the second one with a toothy smile over the edge of her teacup. The fighter, who walked with her shoulders up and her gaze constantly flicking back and forth.

"I control the wolf," the protagonist said automatically, then flinched.

There was a wave of reaction. The fighter dropped her eyes, the speaker immediately raised his hands to calm, to surrender. "You were part of a W.A. pack? That's fine, we're not judging. Obviously we don't subscribe to the creed," he added with a grin, "but it's no skin off our noses."

"Not much choice for a wolf in the city," the fighter added gruffly, her gaze fixed in intense scrutiny of the protagonist's footstool.

The protagonist forced a smile by habit even as they knew it would do no good. If the flinch hadn't been obvious enough the air practically stank with fear, anxiety.

That was the problem, dealing with wolves. There was just no hiding the truth.

"Yes," the protagonist said, giving their footstool the same scrutiny as they paused. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. The pack had probably puzzled it out anyway. "Victim Services recommended Wolves Anonymous to help me find my footing after..." They shrugged

Immediately all three werewolves bared their teeth. The protagonist was used enough to recognize this was not a threat but an expression of sympathy.

"Unacceptable," the speaker hissed, the most wolflike the protagonist had ever seen him.

"The Change is a gift but also a Change," the fighter snarled. "How dare anyone force it another? I trust the miscreant is a pelt?"

The protagonist shrugged and put down their tea cup with unsteady hands. "Drago Asylum. He was in lunar frenzy, it wasn't intentional."

Around them, the protagonist felt the wolves exchange glances as the pieces slotted together. No surprise though.

"Thank you," said the third wolf and their pack mates jumped, "for sharing."

The third wolf spoke in a voice barely louder than the crickets outside, yet the dry rattle of their whisper cut through the room like a knife. The one who positioned themselves by the door, who hung back and kept a watchful eye. The leader.

"We appreciate your forthrightness," they went on, their eyes cool and intense and locked on the protagonist. "You have free parole in our territory as a lone and a standing invitation to our pack, if and when you decide that's what you want. You also," they added with a dry glance to the others, "have free reign to court, be courted, or to have none of it. Whatever you choose won't in any way be impacting your standing."

"Um," the protagonist stammered, heat rising in their cheeks. The fighter grinned. The speaker winked. "That's, uh, that's it? You just met me and I get to join the club?"

The leader cocked their head. "Yes," they said. "We see. We understand. You have good reason to take slow decision. We will wait for you to decide. You are worth waiting for."

The protagonist bit down on their lip. The air in their little cabin had turned thick and hot with this many bodies in their space. But bodies that smelled like pine sap and rich dirt and just a hint of sharp desire, bodies that were carefully angled close enough to support and defend, but not too close to be a threat or to corner. For the first time in months, the presence of others was a comfort. "Thank you," they said.

The leader nodded brusquely, glanced to the speaker. "Right!" the speaker said cheerfully, putting down his cookie. "We've asked you enough questions. Your turn to interrogate us. Fire away."

It was almost dawn before the wolves left. It was two months before the protagonist joined the pack.

#my fiction #werewolves #contemporary fantasy #fantasy #fantasci #100

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sm0lprism · 5 months

Text

Bite-Sized (1) - A G/t BG3 Fanfic

This contains g/t (giant/tiny content) so if that isn't your thing, then I suggest you stop reading. Thank you!

Read on AO3

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Summary: Taken place during Act 1 of Baldur's Gate 3. Meet Ria, a 10 centimetre tall (4 inches) borrower who is trying her best to survive out in the wilderness of Faerûn without being crushed underfoot, squashed, or eaten. Astarion, weak with hunger, manages to catch a whiff of Ria's scent, and driven by his bloodlust he tracks her down with the intention of eating her. Of course, things get a little complicated when Gale becomes involved.

[Picture does not belong to me, found on @/dailyastarionpictures]

Pairing: Astarion x borrower!oc (Tav) (slow-burn, Astarion is a complete ass but eventually comes round in future chapters)

Warnings: V*re mention, mouthplay, fearplay, blood, swearing/course language, blood drinking, Astarion is a real asshole to little people/borrowers and doesn't see them as people so be prepared for him being awful.

Word count: 2.5k

Foreboding shadows of ancient trees casted over the small borrower as she fumbled through the foliage on the forest floor. Gnarly roots protruding from the earthy ground threatened to trip her with each hasty step that she took as her breathing quickened. Ria knew for a fact that something – or someone – was stalking her.

She had become so used to the sensation of being watched by hungry predators throughout her young life that she could almost sense when she was being followed. Every single hair on the back of her neck stood up as she swallowed thickly. Being only a mere 10 centimetres tall made her very easy prey to just about everything that dwelled in the dark forest, and there wasn’t a single doubt in her mind that if she didn’t act swiftly, she was going to end up as a midnight snack very soon. Pressing forward, she soon felt small tremors rattle the earth below her feet like tiny earthquakes. Her heart leaping into her throat, she knew that this only meant one thing: whoever was following her was very close. She forced her legs to run faster, adrenaline now spiking her blood as she let her flight or fight response take over. Panic flared in her chest with each approaching tremor, each one getting stronger and more violent than the last.

Her gaze darted around the forest floor feverishly looking for anywhere that she may be able to quickly hide in to prevent her grim demise. She immediately spotted a thicket of thorns – prickly and painful, yes, but that might deter the hungry predator that was gaining on her rapidly. Without second thought, Ria dived into the thorn bush headfirst and immediately felt stabbing pain at her sides. The thorns tore through her clothing and sliced open her skin, her blood now dripping on the ground, but she pushed through it. She was determined not to die as a late-night snack. Grimacing in pain, she pulled herself as deep into the thorn bush as she could muster. Blood now stained her clothing as she glanced down at her wounds, feeling the wetness of her blood on her fingertips. Forcing herself not to cry, she held her breath, anxiously waiting to see if she would in fact live to see another day. The rattling tremors grew ever closer, causing her entire body to vibrate with each footfall.

Wait a minute – footfall? As in, bipedal? Human?

She shook her head. No, humans didn’t eat borrowers. It had to be something else. Something more carnivorous. Something that was intent on following her through the bush just to track her down and eat her. It made her stomach churn. Peering through the twisting thorny stems of the bush, she was just able to see what was outside thanks to the glowing full moon that shone from above.

A pair of dark leather boots appeared in her vision just outside from her spot in the thorn bush. Of course, she couldn’t see the owner of the boots, but just seeing the giant footwear made her heart almost stop right then and there.

“Come now, little one, this would be so much easier if you just surrendered right now.” A loud, masculine voice blared through her eardrums. The voice, however, was not what she was expecting. It had this sort of flair to it that she couldn’t quite describe. But either way, it didn’t deter from her impending fate. She sucked in a sharp breath and hoped that whoever it was would turn away.

“I can smell your blood, darling.” The voice rumbled from above like thunder. “My gods, it smells positively divine. Getting all bloodied up for a vampire is truly flattering, it’s almost as if you want me to bite you in half!”

Vampire!?

Of all the creatures that had to be hunting her down, of course it had to be a vampire. Vampires were known to eat borrowers in a multitude of different ways – biting their heads off to drain the remaining blood, biting them in half, or just simply straight up eating them. An icy chill snaked down her spine as she realised just exactly what she was dealing with. And she had made it even easier for him to find her by smearing her blood everywhere. This couldn’t get any worse.

A tsk tsk tsk noise resonated from above. “I suppose we’re doing this hard way, aren’t we?”

The hard way?!

A piercing scream filled her lungs as the protective thorn bush was practically torn open revealing the vampire in question. Before Ria had a moment to react, a giant hand came crashing down from above and immediately enclosed around her body into a tight fist, yanking her out of her protective thorn casing as if it were nothing. The vampire held her tightly in his grasp, slowly bringing her close to his watchful gaze. Thrashing in his tight vice-like grip, she cried out in protest but to no avail. The icy coldness from the vampire’s skin soon seeped through her clothing and she forcefully supressed a shiver. There was not a single chance that she would be able to escape now. Steadying her rapid breathing, she finally met the gaze of her captor. Piercing giant red orbs met hers and she shuddered out a breath. The man that held her had strikingly pale skin that had an almost ethereal quality to it. His face was sharp and angular, with a cheeky smirk that revealed elongated canine teeth that glimmered white in the moonlight. Long, silvery-white curls framed his perfectly chiselled facial features, contrasting evidently with his crimson blood eyes.

Ria almost forgot to breathe. If the circumstances were different, and she wasn’t going to be his dinner, she would outrightly admit that the man was gorgeous.

“Oh, a little starstruck are we?” The vampire chimed playfully, his smirk growing ever wider, noticing her demeanour. “I can’t say I blame you. I do have that effect on people.”

Ria opened her mouth to speak, but she couldn’t muster anything that resembled a single sentence. Blood was still leaking out from her multiple cuts making her feel a little light-headed at the blood-loss.

“I must say, I have never actually seen a borrower in person before,” the vampire continued, his loud voice rattling her tiny ribcage with each word he uttered. “I can’t believe just how small you are, I mean, you’re literally bite-sized. How perfect is that?”

The word ‘bite-sized’ shot an arrow of panic straight through her chest. Coming to her senses, her words finally found her.

“Leave me the fuck alone!” A mixture of anger and fear swelled in her chest as the words literally spat out of her mouth.

The vampire’s eyebrows shot up at hearing her outcry, but it only made his grin grow wider. Her outburst, for whatever reason, seemed to please him deeply. “Wow, such a venomous bark for such a small thing. Perhaps if you use some manners I may reconsider,” he chuckled darkly. “I believe I haven’t properly introduced myself. My name is Astarion, and you are?”

Baffled at the vampire’s question, her brain attempted to process what was going on. Was he seriously threatening to eat her and exchange names at the same time? This was hardly the time to be formal and polite, but perhaps if it extended her lifespan just a little, she would play along.

“My name is R-Ria,” she managed to splutter out. “Astarion is a very pretty name.”

“Changing your tone now, are we?” Astarion replied with a devilish smile. “But flattery isn’t going to get you anywhere in this situation, I’m afraid. Please don’t take this personally, I'm too weak to hunt right now and you’re the easiest snack I could find. All I need is a drop, then that will give me just enough energy to find something more filling.” He paused, licking his tongue over his upper lip. “However, I can’t deny that your scent alone has me salivating already.”

Ria could feel the remaining colour that was left in her face drain away. She attempted to squirm out of his enclosed fist but he only gripped onto her even tighter, threatening to crush her ribcage in his cold grasp.

“Oh, come now, it won’t be so bad,” he said playfully. “It’ll be over before you know it. But before I do, I cannot ignore the blood you already spilled for me. It’d be a shame for that to go to waste.” His gaze raked over her bloodied arms and legs from the thornbush, the blood still oozing from her open wounds.

He suddenly brought her closer towards his face, now filling her entire vision. Hungry crimson eyes stared at her open wounds and he parted his mouth. Stifling back a scream, she could only watch in horror as the tip of his tongue licked the entirety of her wounded arm, lapping up every morsel of her blood that was stained on her skin.

A low moan escaped past his lips and vibrated through the still air as he licked the blood from the multiple cuts across her arm. It didn’t take him long to start lapping at her other wounds along her legs and other arm with the tip of his tongue, savouring every drop that he could find across her skin.

Fortunately, his tongue stopped once all the blood has been licked clean from her exposed skin. At this point, her heart was on the verge of exploding as she realised that she had just been taste tested by a vampire. Hyperventilating rapidly, she glanced down at the parts of her body that she could see in his enclosed fist – noticeably, she could feel that he had only licked her wounds on the lower part of her arms and legs, and very thankfully, not on the middle or near her chest.

“My, my, darling, you taste absolutely delicious,” he hummed with delight, his tongue running across his upper lip with satisfaction. “It is true what they say about borrower blood being so tasty. I can’t believe I’ve been deprived of something like this for so long.”

“Just wait!” Ria finally managed to cry out, tears pricking her eyes. She expected Astarion to ignore her plea, but he remained silent, save for the still ever hungry gaze that lingered in his red eyes.

“Are you sure you want to eat me right now?” she continued, her heart spasming in her chest. “I-I mean, once you eat me, then there’ll be no more left. Shouldn’t something as tasty as me be savoured?”

Astarion remained silent for a few more seconds. She could see the conflicting thoughts dancing across his expression as he mulled the situation over.

“Hmm, I know this is you clearly trying to delay your untimely death, but you do have a point.” His gaze flickered back to Ria’s bloody wounds along her limbs. “But I am in desperate need for a midnight snack, I’m afraid. I would say better luck next time, but I suppose there won’t be a next time for you, will there?”

“Please, oh gods, I don’t want to die!” Ria shrieked at the top of her tiny lungs, tears now flooding down her face like a torrential river. “Please, I’ll do anything you want, but just don’t eat me!”

“Hush now, my dear, it’ll be all over soon. I’ll be gentle, I promise.”

All Ria could do was watch in utter terror as Astarion opened his mouth wide as his enormous fangs inched closer towards her trembling body. He had her now pinched in between his index finger and thumb, bringing her inside his mouth like she was some kind of tiny finger sandwich.

“Oh fuck, no, please, no!” Ria screamed at the top of her lungs as the front half of her body entered the vampire’s mouth. She thrashed in the vampire’s grip, but it was utterly useless – she had no strength over the giant man. Closing her eyes, her lip trembled, as she slowly began to accept her fate. There was nothing more that she could do. This was the end for her.

“ASTARION!”

A loud, unfamiliar voice pierced the still night air, and Astarion quickly removed Ria from inside his mouth. She immediately felt Astarion tighten his grip around her body as a man emerged into the moonlight. The man had shoulder length brown hair, with purple robes and his jawline was brushed with stubble.

Astarion immediately made a face of pure disgust. “Hello, Gale.”

“What in the gods name are you doing?” The man, Gale, stepped forward. He quickly noticed the tiny borrower that was enclosed in Astarion’s fist. His gaze flickered back to the pale elf with anger.

“Astarion, is that a borrower in your hand?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Astarion said, hiding Ria behind his back so that she was out of Gale’s sight. “A borrower? Can’t say I’ve heard of them before.”

Gale exhaled a frustrated sigh. “Astarion, stop with the bullshit. I saw one in your hand. What were you going to do to them?”

“H-HELP-!“ Ria managed to choke out before she was smothered by Astarion’s cold fingers closing around her tiny form.

“Hand the borrower over, Astarion, or do I have to use magic to get you to cooperate?” Gale persisted, his anger quickly rising.

Astarion pouted like a child handing over stolen candy. “Fine, take her. I wasn’t going to eat her, if that’s what you’re so worried about.” He brought Ria out from behind his back and opened his palm, revealing the tiny borrower.

“He absolutely was going to eat me!” Ria retorted.

“You were going to eat her?” The wizard gaped, quickly moving Ria from Astarion’s hand onto his. “For fuck’s sake, Astarion, we told you that you aren’t allowed to feed from people, only animals!”

“Fine, so what if I was?” Astarion exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air dramatically. “Besides, borrowers hardly count as people! They’re no different from halflings or gnomes, they’re just smaller.”

“We’re going to have a chat once we’re back at camp,” Gale pinched the bridge in between his nose with his free hand. “I’m so sorry about him. Did he harm you?”

Ria was almost at a loss for words. She was still shaking from everything that had happened. Swallowing back her chattering nerves, she craned her neck to look up at the wizard. “T-thank you, he didn’t hurt me, well, he almost did, but…” Her gaze drifted over to the cuts across her limbs from the thornbush. “I do have these cuts, but they weren’t from him.”

Gale noticed her wounds and glared daggers at Astarion. “I hardly believe that it wasn’t him that did this to you, but I’ll take your word for it. I can take you back to our camp, our cleric, Shadowheart, will have those wounds healed in no time.” He smiled warmly at her. “I’m Gale, but I suppose you already know that. What’s your name?”

“I’m Ria,” she answered thickly, her body still trembling. “A-and thank you, I appreciate all your help.”

“Oh no, it’s the least I can do after the trauma my friend most likely put you through. Let’s get going.” Gale’s fingers enclosed around her frame protectively, and she could almost hear Astarion’s eyes roll into the back of his head as they walked through the forest. Whatever happened next, she prayed that the rest of Gale’s friends were nothing like Astarion.

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e-lursts · 9 days

Text

SCAREDY RATS! — VAN PALMER

﹙a continuation of my character ai bot because it was just fluff and it made me ache for something like that. unintentionally, i made this long 💀 i'm so sorry. i think i added way too much backstory before finally getting into the main plot.﹚

﹙legit thanking the anonymous requester for making this bot come alive. if it weren't for your adorable mind, this story wouldn't have become a thing, so thank you!﹚

synopsis ; van, once lost in the dreams of escaping the wilderness and her neglectful reality, never imagined she'd survive, let alone thrive independently. yet, here she was, two years post-rescue, cohabiting an apartment with her girlfriend. the twist? the previous tenants were rats.

warning ; nothing! just a rat-infested apartment <3

wc ; 2.7k words ﹙i got too into it... maybe too much.﹚

𓂃 ʚɞ ⁺˖ ⸝⸝ the past 🍃

Stargazing morphed into something beyond a mere pastime. The stars, twinkling faintly against the deep backdrop of midnight blue, played silent bystanders to conversations masked by the gentle murmur of the neighboring waterfall. Moments of quiet held value greater than the first, second, third, fourth date-or wherever two strangers finally level up to the shared intimacy of a fleeting kiss.

No, this was a transcendence far more than the wonted quiet.

For Van, this kind of tranquility was an unfamiliar colony. She had known silence, yes, but it came with clattered pills and stertors, breaking the monotonous quietude of her rundown home, both inside and out.

Yet, here she encountered a contrasting kind of peace. Crickets serenaded her with a soothing lullaby, capable of cradling her to sleep. Here, attentive company replaced lonely hours with a snoring mother.

Here, someone tuned in to her thoughts, hopes, and wishes instead of catching zzz's.

"What are your dreams, Van?" you inquired, exhaling warm breaths that danced against the soaked tresses sliding down her nape.

Droplets of water plummeted with the force of a pin drop, merging flawlessly with the river's flow, as Van delved into the jungles of her mind. Polishing her thoughts—more likely making up bullshit at last second—the cold water guzzling their lower bodies faded as an afterthought. Expectant exhalations colored the air, then her skin, once your chin drooped onto her shoulder, peppering it with kisses amidst the wait.

"Maybe it's just escaping from all this," Van mused, leaning back into your embrace. Her eyelids fluttered to a shut, fancying a limelight on the wet smooches imprinted on her skin.

"A different one."

"A different one?" Virdiscent irises perked and glanced sideways, meeting your faux frown casually resting on her deltoid. "Why?"

"Because everyone in this damn plane crash seems to be wishing for it," you remarked, earning a nod from her. "And I’m no exception."

You were spot on.

So, in truth, what did she want? Desired?

What did I want?

Years of enduring unappetizing frozen foods and pre-made meals for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and as a midnight snack had her craving for an out. Rotting in her negligent home ached a desire for a brighter future.

A more well-off future.

"I want a life with you." Away from the burden of caring for her already-bedridden mother at the age forty.

"Really?"

"Absolutely."

You leaned closer, approximately meeting her lips, as if about to indulge in the gossip of the century. "What does this life look like then?”

Divided attention glued to your lips, then your eyes. A dark hue, yet the light to her present struggles and impending obstacles.

The sun to her moon. The yin to her yang. The icing on her cake. Key to her heart.

"It'd be waking up to freshly brewed coffee every morning in our cozy apartment," Van finally replied.

Her fingers entwined with yours, meeting your moistened knuckles with her damped palms. The calming water lapping at her lower half synced with her movement, following all subtle twitches of muscle that pushed her back to your chest.

It was a necessity to accentuate the sensation of your breath, your presence, to reassure herself you were still here, listening.

"And then,” Van continued, stretching her smile to reveal a row of teeth, “we'd drink it on our balcony where we can sip and watch the city wake up."

"Then, I'll make the pancakes to pair it with our coffee,” added you with an ear-to-ear grin, mirroring her infectious enthusiasm.

"But on Sundays, we'll turn it into a movie night with blankets and endless bowls of popcorn."

Van, though, wasn't finished yet. “I get to pick the films, though!" which gained a chuckle from your end.

"That's not fair!" you protested. Pouty lips and faint wrinkles brewed the center of your forehead's base. It intended to muster a hint of minimal annoyance, but all it imitated was a puppy—bark with no bite.

"Babe," Van turned around, finally speaking directly with calloused palms smoothing your cheeks. "You know I can't stand your corny picks."

Your face scrunched, jutting out lips to an insincere disapproving frown. All of which healed the pretend wrinkles to a state of normalcy with one lingering kiss from her.

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding!" Van tittered in between playful pecks, barely allowing your lips to part. "We can watch those mushy rom-coms, even if they're so predictable with all those clichés.”

"Ah, don't pretend," you teased, a grin breaking through. "Deep down, you secretly enjoy them. I'm just more brave about admitting it.”

Van nonchalantly shrugged, yet her miniscule smile betrayed her. "Just a little."

With another kiss upon your smiling lips, pecking over your teeth in a playful exchange, all under the watchful gaze of the eventide.

Feeling seen, heard, loved was a matter of privilege, a stroke of luck reserved for the fortunate few.

Once thinking she'd never win the jackpot, the universe, nonetheless, had finally thrown her a bone.

A dream come true.

If Van had told herself from two years ago she'd be lugging back-breaking boxes and schlepping them to a rented apartment in New Jersey, she'd have dismissed it as hallucination number twenty-one, and gone back to sleep. Surviving off meager rations does that shit to your head like that.

But reentering civilization after miraculous, news-buzzing rescue brought a stark reality-check. One glance out the window, man-made buildings and roads filled the expanse of her vision, renewing untrimmed forest flora with cars and human hustle.

"Still feels unreal to you?" Your voice chimed in after the final thud of the muscle-wearing box against the warm hardwood flooring. Empty, vacant space eased your legs to spot behind her, arms wayfinding around her waist like a loose belt embracing already-fitted pants.

"Mhm," was all Van could hum in response.

"Me too," you murmured against the curve of her neck. "Can't believe we got this place."

Or even got out of that hell alive.

Hugging amidst the living room, sparsely decorated with beige cardboard boxes strewn about like a chaotic game of Tetris, it still felt surreal.

It was akin to their shared dream, except reality wasn't as neatly rendered as perfection.

Snagging an apartment amidst New Jersey's chaotic traffic was either a modest oasis or a whole new kind of disarray.

Squared windows did little to muffle the earsplitting noises of rushing ambulances, police sirens, and honking cars that exuded an extra level of aggression. Forget waking up to an alarm clock—weeeee wooos and beeeep-beeeps were the ringtones they'd wake up to. Day, or night, people in a hurry cared little if they disrupted someone's beauty sleep.

The bare walls cried from the clawed scratches ingrained on their bleak, chipped surface. Van mentally noted to hang larger decorations, concealing the dented and marred areas that seemed to double as stress relief for a cat lady's felines.

Shelves and cabinets weren't littered with pans or pantry staples, but thick layers of dust sat as if it were home. Closet doors yawned open, cobwebs lazily draping in its narrow edges, and is that a lone sock abandoned in a corner? If one sock could stank up the whole place, Van dreaded to think about the potential grime lurking in the bathroom.

They should have expected the state of something sold this cheap. Shit was a cursed cavern.

But no matter its bargain rate, this marked the beginning of something new. A fresh start with you. A life away from her mother.

"Should we get cleaning?"

A vocal chord straining, throat tightening, "VAN!" shrieked from your gape lips. A belted out tone so great that it could have pierced the heavens and left God wondering what the fuss was about.

The unholy amounts of fucks, shits, oh gods, and blood-curling scream must have transformed Van's legs into a pair of speedy race cars, zooming towards the room that echoed with your familiar call for help. Because in a blink of an eye, there, you saw her.

Your savior. Your pest exterminator.

Urgent hands clutched at the robust doorway, halting Van's rapid steps. "What's going on?"

What's going on?

Mouth quivering, it rallied between wanting to spill the details like a generous charity and hoping Van would piece together the emergency herself.

Your tembling figure fully leaped to the protective height of the couch's plush, thankful for its elevation that spared your feet from potential nibbling.

Wide-eyed and searching, you scanned the room for the grey freeloader and its grotesque tail spreading abnormalities while your heart threatened to burst through your ribs.

Anxiety had choked out all senses of rationality as your panicked hand opted to use the dust cleaner like a medieval weapon, doing as much damage as a level-one player about to fight a dragon with bare fists.

You were ready—or at least convinced yourself you were ready—to kick out one tiny mouse that could be harboring a horde of rodent relatives just beyond a thin wall.

God, rats were the bane of your existence—annoying, furry intruders.

Sheer panic should have been infectious, radiating high spikes of fear to crash on your girlfriend's body.

But instead, there, she stood still, leaning against the doorway with an... amused smirk?

Your hand choked the dust cleaner.

"Van!" Her smirk wiped off.

"Can you stop finding this amusing and help me, please?" you pleaded, begged, to be seen as a distressed damsel in need of rescuing rather than a source of entertainment.

"Okay, okay," Van uttered the words without as much of a semblance of a commitment. She raised her hands, an imaginary lift of a defeated white flag, and drooped her head to mask her bitten lower lip. A clear sign, you just knew, she was fighting demons to contain her laughter.

Typical Van.

Her gesture was appreciated, even if it didn't fully alleviate the situation like a straight-faced rescue mission would have.

Relaxed footsteps finally came to your aid. Your plain-shirted, cargo-clad white knight extended her arms, ready to swoop you up in a graceful rescue.

"Calm down," she coaxed, suppresing the urge to chuckle at your terrified expression. "It's just a little visitor, after all. I'll take care of it."

Oh, so she did figure out what the fuck was happening.

"But for now," she added, offering to carry you bridal-style, "let's get you to safety, okay?”

"You promise?" Your dust cleaner descended, relenting your guard at her sweet promises.

"I promise."

"But, you better not drop me, or I swear to God—" Van wouldn't, of course. You weren't a sack of potatoes.

But your threats vanished, gone by a blink, once an inevitable scream suffocated your words. Something darted past the corner of her eye, familiar little feet scurrying its small claws on the ground. That damn abomination.

"Hey, hey,” Van's cooing slipped from one ear to the other. "It's okay, relax—”

Knees jelly, your hand instinctively reached for the nearest stable object: Van's shoulders.

"Just breathe," she reminded. "Breathe, babe."

Her words must have been brewed with witchcraft, melting your mind to merge with a voodoo doll's own. Since, before you knew it, your weight had already sunk into the welcoming grasp of the cushions, breaths amplifying with each passing moment—weighty, but oddly balanced.

“That's it,” Van murmured, a hand rebelling against the wrinkles riding across the back of your shirt as it rubbed and rubbed. “Easy, baby.”

If silence were a crime, you'd gladly plead guilty to hear Van's voice as punishment.

No shame in admitting that.

Your breathing, in mere seconds, transformed from the erratic gasps of a marathon runner to the rhythmic cadence of a contented sloth. In her arms, you felt safe, protected from any danger.

But once your feet lost touch of the couch's plush, the puddle of relaxation was shattered by your own unwanted yelp. Your knees pointed skyward, palms hastily relocating from shoulders to Van's nape, one arm below your thigh and back to support your weight.

“Would it kill you to stop being so jumpy?” Van's careful steps into the hallway blurred her chuckles. “I mean, how can you still be afraid of rats?”

The question steered the redness of your cheeks to your ears.

You're not sure what source your embarrassment came from. Van carrying you like a damn newborn and plopping you like one on the bed or your fear of rats. Probably a mix of both.

“Can you please just stop talking?” You flicked the dust cleaner against her forehead, clinging specks of filth against portions of her scarred lines. She playfully coughed, waving away the granules like a frantic windshield wiper in a rainstorm.

“Wow, so you're asking me to save your ass, shut up, and then a surprise attack?" she chuckled, propping herself up with one elbow on the mattress. "Are you even capable of thanking me?”

“Well, not with you acting like a total ass," you retorted, turning every degree of your body away from Van's sight as if truly upset.

"Me, an ass?" Her grin was surely ear-to-ear by now.

"I'm giving you the premium treatment, you know. I'm not just saving you; I'm being your savior. Your protector. I'm fulfilling my chivalrous duty, and all I get is a pout?"

“Yeah.”

“Woww.”

"Hmm, let me think." The brief break of silence was broken by the tapping of her fingers on her forehead, then a low hum of contemplation.

"How about I punish you for your lack of gratitude and disrespect to your loving girlfriend with..." She slanted closer, invasive breaths abutting your neck.

"Forceful cuddles?”

"Oh no, what am I going to do?" you exclaimed, feigning wide-eyed concern. Yet, a smile creeped after meeting Van's equally playful grin.

"I absolutely, positively do not want you to give me a warm, tight hug that lasts forever. And definitely not any kisses on the cheeks or—gasp—lips. Oh, and please, no gentle hair-stroking to calm me down. Nope, not at all," you quipped, finishing with an eyeroll for good measure.

All Van did in response was reach with tuck some diverging behind your ear, cascading them to lay atop the pillow. Locks of hair formerly obscuring your ethereal features, your long lashes had presently shut and headed directly to bury against another pillow; her ample bosom. The natural scent of mild sweat from hours of activity and her lingering cologne held a spell capable of dozing you off.

So much for that "horrible" embrace.

With one hand on the small of your back and an arm jailing your waist, silence stretched to a never-ending length. As your bodies molded together in a snugly cradle, infrequent rustling of clothes cracked the stillness occupying the scantily decorated room.

Only Van's giggle added another sheet of noise.

“Sleepyhead.”

Blaring weeeee-woooos assaulted your eardrums, snapping off the tight seal of your eyelids. Prying your eyes open, expecting a serene sunrise, a riot of red and orange briefly blinded your vision's expansion, courtesy of the ongoing sirens outside. Talk about a mood killer.

A few more blinks cleared the sleep fog, and… something disrupted the sunlight streaming through the window. A dull grey, out-of-place, mass. A squeak that could rival a rusty door hinge. Whiskers twitching as buck teeth nibbled on a morsel of food.

Right there and then, you registered it, unfazed, with its paws unquestionably branding your skin with faint concentrations of bacteria.

Eating. On. Your. Fucking. Chest.

“WHAT THE FUCK.”

Your colorful language surely would be the talk of the neighborhood. But that didn't fucking matter when a rat was perched atop of you like it owned the place.

On impulse, your hands rocked your companion's shoulder, jolting her off of her slumberland, blabbering “VAN!” like it was a code-red emergency.

"Wha—what's wrong?!" Van asked before her eyes widened upon descending on the ravenous fat rogue.

The room had morphed into a frenzy of activity with morning calm becoming yesterday's news.

Internal panic, meet external chaos.

Hastily, you backed and booted off the covers, flinging the rat triumphantly, all while hysteria screeched the notes of your voice. Van responsively sprang into action, armed with whatever object to chase away the unwelcome intruder.

The rat, not a fan of drama, scurried away for a swift exit, shortly merging into the shadows of the room.

“It's gone now.”

“Yeah,” you panted, “for now.”

Note to self: Speed dial a pest exterminator.

ASAP.

#lesbian #yellowjackets #van palmer #van palmer x you #van palmer x reader #yellowjackets x you #yellowjackets imagines #yellowjackets x reader #elurstwriting #fluff #yellowjackets fluff #wlw post #wlw

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bloomingdarkgarden · 9 months

Text

An altar for Elain Archeron.

This also serves as a multishipper-friendly space. I enjoy and create content for most ACOTAR characters. Appropriate tags are used, please don’t join unless you are prepared to see content regarding various pairings. I don’t believe in supremacy. Be kind please.

Original work below the cut.

Elain x Azriel

What Bloomed in the Darkgarden 42 chapters, Canon-Compliant, Slow Burn, Explicit.

Elain Archeron is not the trembling fawn everyone believes her to be. Years after Hybern’s war, she feels an awakening of power within herself. She soon begins mastering the art of Sight under the guidance of the lost Oracle of the Day Court. All the while waging an inevitable war of passion with a holy mess of a shadow-wreathed male who looks at her with all the longing in the world. And so perhaps a little more softly, a little more lethally, Elain begins her journey down the path unknown. For there’s something blooming within her- something softer, darker, and wilder than she can name, reaching for the song of the Void.

Elain x Lucien

In Fading Hush of Eden Lost 12 Chapters, Canon-Compliant, Slow Burn, Explicit.

Elain Archeron takes up residence in an empty cottage in the highlands of the Day Court to study native plants. Lucien Vanserra is stepping into his role as a future High Lord in the city nearby, and visits her once a week to bring her provisions. Thus in the soft, desperate, hushed winds of summer’s end, what was once lost between them becomes found.

Viviane x Kallias

Upon A Midnight Clear 7 Chapters, Canon-Compliant, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Explicit.

There was loss. There was war. There was ruin. But before it all, there was him. And Viviane would freeze over the burning heart of hell itself to keep him from harm. To hold him close. To bring him home.

Lady of Autumn x Helion

Autumn Burns Eternal 12 Chapters, Canon-Compliant, Slow Burn, Explicit.

She had a name. Not that anyone in the room was using it. But she had a name.

Visual Storytelling

The Archerons Sisters

Nesta’s Monologue

Nesta's Violent Heart

Valkyrie

Lord of Bloodshed

Azriel’s Poetry

Nesta Became a Wolf

Helion Spell-Cleaver

Feyre Cursebreaker

Elain in Darkness

Elain’s Secrets

Elriel in Autumn

An Elriel Sketch

Elain’s Gentle Strength

Lucien’s Flame

Moon on a String

Court of Nightmares

Night Triumphant + Stars Eternal

Neris

Rhysta

Kallias

Viviane

Males of ACOTAR

Males in Turtlenecks

Males in Pink

Males in Pajamas

Males at Solstice

Headcanons

Elain Wears Pants pt.1 | Elain Wears Pants pt.2

Elain Torments Azriel in Blue

Lucien’s Hands

Lucien Undone

Cottagecore Lucien

Lucien as a Big Brother

Lucien's Grief

Elain’s hair

Elain’s Ass

Azriel’s Hands

Azriel’s Food Trauma

Azriel’s Smile

Azriel’s Sexy Grip

Nesta in the Summer

Day Court Attire

ACOTAR Zodiac

Evajacks

Jack's Confession

Let Me Pretend

Cheeky Jacks

Evajacks share a gift

#acotar #acotar masterlist #ehoney #acotar fanfiction #sjm #pro elain

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jestercake · 2 months

Text

Finished some writing for you lovelies! Sorry for the delay but the concept piece to go with it took more time than I expected it to.

Preliminary Before Reading:

This short story is based almost entirely off of Disney’s Haunted Mansion 2023 film, with some allusion to the 2003 film adaptation. All of the characters within this story belong to Disney and I have adapted many of them to my own personal interpretation. This storyline takes place the night before Ben Matthias enters the mansion and Kent has gone back to New Orleans in order to seek him out. This story is a tragedy! (NOTE: I often capitalize the pronoun “He/Him” in most sentences in order to identify the Hatbox Ghost.)

Word Count: 10,414

DISCLAIMER:

Before reading, this story has specific and mature content listed: Necrophagia, Suicide by manipulation, poisoning, implied assult, explicit violence to ghosts, and implied enslavement.

The Dining Room

…

Almost every night at midnight, many ghosts were forced to set the elongated dining table for dinner. Some servant spirits had no trouble setting the table for their previous masters of the house, William Gracey amongst them. However, those times were far behind them. Now that Gracey had fallen victim to what others called, “the Hatbox Ghost,” dinner was a time of misery and melancholia.

William Gracey watched the upper levels of the grand dining room with a sunken heart and a sunken soul. How, in retrospect, it used to glow with warm orange candlelight, full of life and merriment, especially when guests used to come round. Now, the only light was an ominous, cold purple, gloomy and wrong.

William decided to ignore the subtle beat of the grandfather clock, thumping akin to a metallic heart. It would soon strike the thirtieth hour, signifying evil was on its way. He dematerialized down to the grand hall with a fair swoop of blue light as he grappled his yellow lantern. He was fond of it, for it was reminiscent of Elanore’s warmth.

“Quiet night tonight, isn’t it?” The ghost of a footman seemed to exclaim with a mellow tone to Gracey.

They patted the obvious pillows upon the largest dining armchair. Gracey exhaled as if he still had life within his lungs, folding the napkins as if to make himself useful.

“Yes...it always seems so.”

“It’ll get lighter!” Another spirit had said rather optimistically.

“It was lighter then…” Gracey finished the rest of the napkins off as if he were a footman himself, contemplating how many would be eating here tonight.

Every night was different now that the new master of the house had taken authority. The unfortunate souls that had seemed to disturb His presence spent the rest of the night locked away in objects of his choice, or worse. Sometimes, it was any object He’d set eyes upon— such as a lamp or a curtain hanger. William particularly remembered a time where He trapped a soul inside a chaliace and started to drink from it. Really, it was all who enviced such cowardice that were selected, brought forth to their ferocious master, and were led off immediately to be punished as an atonement for their offense. It was quite tortuous actually, being trapped inside something inanimate just to further the idea of enslavement. Being used was another abuse.

“Oh don’t let Him get to you now, Master Gracey. Grief wants something in all of us, y’know.” A parlor-maid spoke after she had set the chairs in their places.

William Gracey looked around in anxiousness after the maid had called him ‘Master Gracey.’

“Don’t say that dear, not at this time. He could be listening.” Another parlor-maid had said in a sudden response.

William then noticed a much wilder, tall-stature spirit materialize across the room, but it was not black like a shadow. It was the Hatchet Ghost, titled that way by the Hatbox Ghost, where his mortal name was once Vincent Gracey. William’s shoulders ran tight when he spawned near the rest of the maid-servants and footmen.

Vincent wore the same tattered dark suit and tailcoat, accompanied by a straight Victorian bow tie. More noticeably, there lay a prominent and raw wound across his neck. He grimaced, side-glancing at one of the maids who addressed William as ‘Master.’

“Ah…I thought I’d heard something out of you few. Still resisting, are we?” Vincent sneered with his strange, grotesque smile and sickly bulged eyes.

His skin remained a ghastly color with somewhat sunken features. William Gracey watched the Hatchet Ghost paced past the two maidservants, skimming the decorative table once or twice. Then, he stopped at the dining armchair, scoffing.

“Who patted the pillows!? Our master likes them rather billowy! Was it you?” Vincent suddenly pointed at a servant who’s back had faced the scene.

Suddenly, the soul turned with a terrible expression while the Hatchet Ghost forced them to the floor with a strange unseen power. The ghosts screamed and were blasted out of the dining hall in a matter of seconds. The other servants cowered after the event, looking toward the floor with dreadful expressions, while others retreated themselves.

“That’s better...” Vincent grumbled as he turned his head back to the chair.

He took the time to readjust the pillows so that they were perfect. After he did so, his eyes met with William Gracey. Although William wanted to react, use what little power he could to resist, he had no control over the situation. Any situation, in that fact.

“Oh, William. Why the long face? You of all… specters should know these rules…” Vincent made his way over to his nephew.

There was a small moment of silence between the two until William decided to speak.

“I don’t care, Vincent. I don’t serve devils like you do.”

With subtle fury upon his face, Vincent closed his fists tightly in response. However, he was cunning enough to know William’s mannerisms would be dealt with rather soon.

“…I’m..sorry to hear that, William. I expected more from you. But…” Vincent paused for a moment as he neared his distant relative with an unforgivable face.

“I remember you’re just a coward who lives in the past.”

William Gracey stood his ground, but in response, the slight flame within him was snuffed out in a matter of seconds.

“…You’re stuck, Gracey, just like the rest of them. Stuck mourning over some dead drab that wouldn’t even remember you.” Vincent spoke with such poison.

William brought his head down to where it was less painful, contemplating those words that were sharp as spears. He knew his uncle was right and it sickened him. It almost made his bones twist deep within the Earth, as he knew the truth. No matter how much he tried to resist, how much he’d tried to better himself, nothing would change the fact that this was all his fault. All his damn fault.

“…Perhaps if you did your job you wouldn't be so…useless. Besides, I won’t be the one to help you when you’ll inevitably pay Him for your actions.” Vincent continued to speak.

“And I’m sure you know His punishments quite well…don’t you…William?”

The Hatchet Ghost smiled unpleasantly at William and watched him return to a submissive state of sorrow and regret. It wasn’t hard to degrade him, and he knew that all too well.

“Now then…How about you go and pour our Master His glass before he arrives. Make yourself useful for once…”

William kept his eyes off of Vincent as he passed him. However, it was obvious to him how the other spirits watched as he carried himself in misery towards the end of the table. As he passed the maidservant, she returned glances with him, truly sorry that he’d fallen victim to this darkness.

He poured a large chalice full of arsenic for the Master of the house. Arsenic was His favorite and quite a strong delicacy for dark spirits to consume. It was like any other form of alcohol in the mortal realm, though much more potent. Devil’s whiskey, he thought.

William set the glass back down as more spirits were forced into the grand hall without liberty. He could recognize a few of them in the large crowd, some of them distant friends he’d once known in his past life. However, many of them were new acquaintances that he’d met during his purgatory. He made his way to Victor, a pipe organist, and Dorian Gracey, a distant relative to himself. He was also good friends with a harpist who had no name, for she couldn’t remember what it was, but she was a kind spirit. Dorian was the first to speak.

“William, I wish I could say good afternoon to you, but…” Dorian’s voice faded slightly.

William Gracey only smiled with his lips in response, but his expression hadn’t changed.

“It’s good to see you intact, Dorian.” William said half-heartedly.

He knew Dorian was cursed and would soon start to deteriorate, but it was always good to remind him of his obvious beauty.

“I didn’t know you were helping tonight, Gracey. And if I’m being quite frank I’m not even hungry.” Victor had said afterwards as he met up with the small group of spirits.

“One is always…particularly hungry. We don’t even need to be here.” The flutist caught up with Victor, adding into the conversation.

“It’s good to see you both. The realms haven’t been so kind to me.” William spoke with a dreadful undertone, knowing the reasons why.

“Don’t dwell on the past, William. At least we can see each other now.” Dorian patted William’s shoulder in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“Yes, In the grand hall….Which I can never seem to escape…” Victor Giest scoffed in slight annoyance, though he was glad to be with his fellow spirits.

William exhaled a small laugh as the four of them continued to converse with each other. However, he couldn’t help but notice the darker spirits around them, maintaining the proper order of their master. Constance was one of them, corrupted by the Hatbox Ghost and forced to do his bidding unwillingly, despite her general liking to frightening mortals.

“You know, I sometimes wonder why He invites so many of us. One should not invite fewer than the Graces nor more than the Muses.” The flutist had commented upon the obvious, uneven amount of spirits present.

Constance met eyes with William suddenly, her eyes blinded with a strange blue light. Even for a ghostly entity, she was quite awful to look at. He inhaled suddenly, turning his head towards the upper levels of the house in a moment.

Suddenly, the grandfather clock echoed throughout the entire realm of the mansion, refracting perfectly as if to evoke fear upon every sorrowful soul. The painful ticking heartbeat seemed to cease after the twelfth stroke, as every spirit turned heads without content. William inhaled and watched as every exit seemingly faded away within the walls of the grand hall, which had stretched effortlessly in every direction. All spirits were lively, some even attempted to flee. However, an unknown presence forced their standing as if the floor became an ethereal cement. Even William had come to find himself stationary, which made every particle of his plasmic form circulate with worry and anticipation of what events would unfold.

Soon, the last chime of the clock echoed through the atmosphere and the repeated loud tapping of a cane’s ferrule could be heard everywhere, as if to snare the helpless souls once and for all. Every loud clap was a disturbing reminder of agonizing pain, akin to the sound of a whip to the abused. Each stab noisier than the last until the final blow came to a halt almost suddenly.

William Gracey looked around for the rest of his small group, no sign of the Hatbox Ghost anywhere. His eyes found movement when Vincent walked from the table effortlessly in silence. As he watched the spirit near one of the walls that had recently closed off, everything ran cold and still. Not a single Spector made a sound once the world around them grew dark with a black smog. He was near.

Trapped in thought, Gracey gripped onto his lantern in means of comfort, hardly able to make out his friends beside him in the thick fog. The feeling of grief began to overwhelm him without control, as he began to recall his beloved Elanore’s passing. Frightened souls wailed in the darkness as they heard the Hatchet Ghost’s calling.

“Everyone in their places…”

William shut his eyes as he was engulfed in terror, unable to escape. Every move seemed torturous as a now present sinfulness resonated throughout the endless realm, pure and maddening. The void of the fog started to reabsorb itself into one large, singular entity. An evil spirit of tyrannical might and manipulation. An infamous, malevolent entity.

“…Sir Hatbox Ghost…” Vincent exclaimed softly as he stood behind a nearby dining chair, arms folded.

The remaining section of a wall was ripped open as the dark spirit entered the room, only to have it close quickly after he’d entered. The air was deathly still as his cane tapped mockingly against the cold tiles. An animalistic growl escaped the entity as His great dark, ghostly cape dragged shortly after His grotesquely discomforting limp, a hatbox held in His left claw. The dark spirit had about him a spectral aura of blackness, something unnatural for even the ghost realm, where a strange bright orange light illuminated within the hatbox.

“…No reason to be…afraid…” came an omniscient, dark echo.

William Gracey attempted to move his feet, but to no avail. It was unwise that he had to stand so near the end of the table, for that was where the Hatbox Ghost approached. The Hatchet Ghost followed his master shortly after, making sure he drew the seat from the table.

However, before Hatbox Ghost took a seat, he stopped. Suddenly, the light within his hatbox faded to reveal a dark and desolate face of demoniacal features upon his hunched shoulders. He stared across the lengthened grand dining hall without a single sound, looming above them all. Only His great yellow eyes sifted every soul within His vicinity, followed by a deep, breathless inhale and a low snarl with bared teeth.

Many ghosts never saw his true face upon his shoulders, for he was a cursed entity, head bound to his hat box. Only during midnight was he able to soothe his own pain, once his head rested upon his shoulders.

The darkness within the dining hall never ceased as long as the Hatbox Ghost was present. No one held a voice, for he was too powerful to be spoken with. The only way one could stay below the radar was to disengage Him. But that was inevitable.

“Ah, what a…delightful bunch I have here tonight. I’m sure you are all…ecstatic upon my arrival.” He spoke through his booming, guttural, accented voice.

“Yes, Sir—Marvelous indeed!” One of his goons had said suddenly without context.

The Hatbox Ghost turned to face the outspoken spector, only to have them fall to silence instantly. Then he exhaled, finishing off his strained cycle towards his enlarged dining armchair.

Every eye watched with underlying dread as the Hatbox Ghost first analyzed the pillows. He glared with some content upon the work, akin to a critic, then held out his cane for a footman to take. Then he set his hat box beside him, still standing. Quickly, the footman took the large object in complete, almost robotic sync against his very will.

Something upon the entity’s face painted an impatient and ferocious expression in such a gradual manner as He stalked the still atmosphere. Then, He grimaced with sharpened, decayed teeth whilst he set himself down with a bit of strain. Within an instant, every spirit had made their way to the table without their will present. They all waited for Hatbox Ghost to sit before anyone could. Only after, did everyone take their seat in a repetitive manner.

William Gracey had found himself bending down until he and the rest of his friends were glued to their seats, unable to get up. It was an engaging, yet terrible entrapment caused by the evil spector’s supernatural abilities. Only He was in control.

After a moment of long silence, The massive ghost lifted His dark spell upon the spirits so that they could move freely. However, no one could leave their seat after He turned his clawed hand in a strange manner. Some whispering and vickering came shortly after the Hatbox Ghost had done so.

“Ah, yes. There’s no need to thank me, for I am rather…generous tonight.” A deep bellowing growl escaped His thin lips.

Then, He set his folded claws upon the edge of the table. It was in such terrible grace it made William Gracey feel quite weary. No one responded, in fear of what Hatbox Ghost might say or do to them. It was something every old spirit had painfully adapted to. However, some still spoke, for they were rather young and oblivious.

“Generous you are, Sir Hatbox Ghost! But, I was wondering something myself of late...” A rather plump spirit had responded, for it was Phineas, as most ghosts went by.

The Hatbox Ghost lifted his chin a bit, eyes now gazed upon the ghost irritatingly. His chest rose and one could notice the sheer width of his ribcage through his eccentric clothing.

“What do you…want, Phineas? Or should I say…you three.” Hatbox ghost snarled, for this has happened almost every evening occasion.

“Well, Phineas is just being quite chaste! If you—your uh—excellency…can lend us a car—” Another ghost beside him, Ezra, was brought into the conversation rather swiftly.

William Gracey, as for many of the other spirits at the table, observed the Hatbox Ghost as He pressed two of His long fingers against the sharp bridge of his sunken nose, closing His eyes in annoyance. This was the usual, everyone presumed.

“Yes Sir! I think we could be a great help if we weren’t—well, y’know—all cooped up in this house. Of course we all know you can't even leave the grounds yourself!” Another spirit, Gus, added his voice as well.

After a short bit of laughter, the trio changed expressions upon a quick thought. They noticed the Master’s widened, yellow eyes, beaming back at them unpleasantly. It was enough to even frighten the Hatchet Ghost, who sat closest to Him. It was rather animalistic and unnatural how small His pupils were slit.

Ezra looked away quickly, nudging the two others to quit their useless bickering. Then, he grinned back as if to relieve the thick atmosphere.

“We’re sorry, Master. Please…Do carry on in ignoring our requests. They are stupid requests…”

“Oh yes, childish!” Gus added.

The Hatbox Ghost exhaled with bared, slimy teeth. However, His terrible look was drowned out with a sudden, strange and false smile. Then, He spoke with sound gravel.

“The…only reason why I seem to be..stuck here…”

Suddenly, Hatbox Ghost clenched his fists and the three spirits were lifted slightly from their seats, which encouraged distressed cries. Then, they were all forced to face the evil Spector.

“Is due to the pitiful failures of little souls such as YOU THREE!” He bellowed.

Suddenly and by force, the Hatbox Ghost made the three of them strain painfully midair as if they were foolish puppets. Then, after enough torment, he brought them back down as they scrambled to their seats in a panicked frenzy. It was quite a terrible spectacle.

“Tedious old fools…” The Hatbox Ghost muttered.

William Gracey exchanged looks with Dorian, who now looked deathly sick as he reached the decomposition process of his curse. William turned his head in an instant, too overwhelmed to deal with Dorian’s malformations. Instead, he’d begun to fidget with his translucent, skeletal fingers underneath the table with his eyes shadowed.

“Now, where were we…” The Hatbox Ghost spoke with undertones of latent ravening. He was, however, quite capable of hiding such fury.

“The...mortals, Sir.” Vincent had imposed as he subtly whispered beside Him.

Slowly, the evil Spector wore a strange, deathly grin in light of the news, as He glided His vision across the table.

“Ah…yes. As many of you know, we have some new…guests with us of late.” He sneered.

The Hatbox Ghost grappled his chalice as he brought it to his gaunt lips with great emphasis. He took a rather considerable gulp, as he knew that all eyes were upon him.

It was strange to see the dark fluid melt into His ghostly form. William could see how it passed down His body, through His ribcage, every time lightning flashed into the room. It made him shudder. It was unnatural.

It brought Him much pleasure to be surrounded by the horror of others. Many souls knew He was not one of them, a cursed demon of sinfulness and lingering desires. Upon setting His toxic refreshment down, the Hatbox Ghost dragged his lengthy tongue across the surface of his teeth with such unpleasantness. His stare soon caught up to Victor, then to William Gracey, which made both of them presently unsettled.

“A priest, a mother and her…boy. What a bright little bunch if I do say so myself.” He spoke.

There was some short murmuring from the souls after the Hatbox Ghost addressed the news, most of them up to date. However, it was more due to their anticipation of the mortal guests that made them apprehensive.

“Oh…what will become of these most sorrowful souls?…” He spoke almost rhetorically, masking a wicked chuckle.

A grumble escaped the Hatbox Ghost as he failed to hide his content. It wasn’t unclear what the dark spirit would inevitably do to the mortals. For the entrapped souls, such as William Gracey, it was enslavement.

“Well, never mind that…for now. Let us dine together as acquaintances…”

After a moment of silence, the Hatbox Ghost raised his right claw and administered the footmen to leave the dining hall at once. As if it were almost routine, the ghouls headed towards the kitchen for the first course. That’s when the murmuring started up again.

“I heard the mother’s name was Gemma, or Gabbie, or something of that sort. Wonder where they’re from.” Victor spoke quietly from across the table to William Gracey and the Flutist.

“I do wish them well—That poor kid. He must be a bright young lad.” The Flutist had said to Gracey, who glanced back at her.

William attempted to disregard the obvious gaze from the Hatbox Ghost as he spoke to the spirits beside him.

“Uh—yes. Poor kid…” he muttered.

William Gracey now sifted his view upon Dorian, who’s skin had completely fallen apart from putrefaction. He was now an acrid skeleton, left in humiliation beside his friends. From the gratified look of Vincent, he enjoyed this quite awfully.

Dorian lifted the bare bones that were his hands, in an attempt to shield his brother’s gaze. However, William Gracey had stopped his relative before he could take any action, staring at him. Dorian looked back in slight bafflement.

“Don’t let them get to you..” William managed to say as he shook his head.

Vincent, among other goons, watched in subtle fury as the other spirits conversed, and perhaps even schemed, against the superintendency of the Hatbox Ghost. What dishonor they had for their glorious overlord, sitting in the very company of Him as if it meant nothing.

Willam Gracey set his eyes upon Vincent, and gave him a stern look. However, that soon vanished as the Hatbox Ghost suddenly gave him a look of absolute intent. It sent an unanticipated shiver down his entire form, filling him with despair, as he found himself frozen upon the deathly eyes. He couldn't help but relive those memories so long ago.

…

A pen had taken itself to parchment, he remembered. It was filled with words written in her handwriting. Every curve, every dot was hers. Instinctively, he wrote back to Eleanor, longing to see her again.

“I miss you as I loved you so. Why must death do us part?” He wrote in an expression that reflected his soul.

Madame Leota had warned him about this entity weeks on end, but he was blinded by grief and sorrow. He had seen Eleanor at times- as pretty as a picture and all the more. Sometimes she’d appear in a mirror or glass, refracting in a similar nature to water or dew. And sometimes, he heard her whisper things in his sleep. But mostly, she appeared in his dreams, and it was a presence that had wrapped him tight. A presence he couldn not escape.

“Gracey, my dearest love…” Eleanor had said within Gracey’s dream one night.

She caressed his false body, moving up his back and shoulders from behind. When William attempted to look at her, she set a hand upon his eyes and said,

“Mortal eyes cannot look directly upon the deceased…”

Gracey inhaled, soothed by her soft hand almost instantly. He moved his fingers across hers as he felt into complete darkness.

“…But why? Why can’t I look upon you, my love?” William remembered saying.

“…No man can gaze at My face and live. look at Me and you shall be lost for all eternity…”

“Then I beg of you to let me indulge in other senses! I want to picture you—remember you so that I don’t forget!”

After a subtle silence, Eleanor responded.

“…I will give you something…you will never forget.”

Her voice echoed within the darkness, giving off a shallow, uncanny feeling. It was as if it were doubled and strangled out in some strange way. But nonetheless, Gracey disregarded it.

With great dread and longing, he attempted to get the most out of his once lost love. He could remember her breath—absent of warmth—as she set her lips upon his. Together, they were in complete, desolate harmony as Gracey felt overcome with this lustful addiction. He continued to kiss her and so did she, arms intertwined as he felt her body like a blind man would with the world around him. He could almost picture her face clear in this dream until he felt hers draw away from his.

“…Eleanor…” Gracey exhaled, eyes locked away from sight as he shivered from the cold.

He gripped at her clothes, begging for more. However, slowly Eleanor had pulled away from him.

“—please—don’t leave me…” He uttered mournfully.

Gracey’s hands shook desperately as he held onto her.

“My time with you grows shorter. Listen to me, my love…”

“…no—please.”

“…Only the force of life has parted us from one another. You must give the life you have to Me. Only then will we reunite on the other side.”

“No!…”

Gracey reached out at nothing but ice-cold blackness as Eleanor faded away. On his knees he cried out, but she was no longer there to listen to his dreadful groans. In silence, he cupped his face with both hands until the dream slowly grew faint. But one echo was still heard from within the void, deep and omniscient.

“…Only through death can you see me once more…”

With the words reverberating infinitely in his mind, Gracey finally awoke in a sweat. Rapid breaths overcame him and quite suddenly, he drew away the covers to light a nearby candle. As he made his way towards the study of the mansion, the sound of spirits began to accompany him. Whispers filled the halls as he ran down them, trying to escape the chaos yet to unfold around the mansion. Nothing in the world would stop him from seeing his lost love tonight.

Upon entering the study, Gracey lit the fireplace to draw the darkness away. He stood within his office, noticing a piece of parchment enveloping an object on the large desk. with great anxiety and desire for action, he took the note and small object into grasp and brought it close to the light. He read the note first:

“Tonight we will meet on the other side. —Eleanor.”

Then, with terrible anticipation, he unraveled the note from the object, revealing a small bottle of arsenic. Poison.

Grasping the small bottle at hand, he covered his mouth and inhaled. It was all loud and true, and he knew what had to be done. However, even in grief something never set with him right. He started to quarrel with his morality as he paced in a panicked frenzy. Someone had told him once not to be envious of death, but Gracey felt as if even the malice of Hell would be meek compared to the torment of grief.

Gracey’s pacing subsided as he stopped to look upon the light of the fireplace, face wet with tears of confliction. It was warm and radiant— something he longed to feel again. Without Eleanor, he felt lost in the mortal world. Even after months of performing the same repetitive seance, it all felt futile, for he finally had a chance to see her again. He wouldn’t just let her fade away as if nothing had happened. It was only terror that seemed to engulf him. To live or to die, that was the question. The question that had brought him more pain than poison or hellfire. Finally, he felt as if he was in some control of his decision. He felt something other than misery.

And with this in mind, he slowly unscrewed the cork of arsenic as if it were a bottle of strong liquor. A liquor strong enough to stop a man’s heart. A subtle pop was heard and William Gracey glanced at the bottle with great apprehension, palms sweaty as his heart thundered. He winced away his fear and thought of Eleanore’s desperate command. With this in mind, his jaw tightened as he gradually brought the bottle to his lips. And finally, he slipped it down his throat with curled lips.

Upon finishing the bottle, he grimaced at the pungent and sour metallic flavor of the poison. He searched the room with rapid, uncontrollable thoughts, knowing there was no turning back. He gazed upon the table, setting his hand on the hard leather surface while he dragged his fingers across it. Then, he walked towards the fireplace, standing by it.

Hastily, Gracey’s breath started to stagger as he felt incredibly nauseous. His intestines screamed in anguish as he clutched his torso, for the pain never ceased afterward. It felt as if every organ and bone within him started to break apart and leak out in puddles upon the floor. He wretched out what he could in an attempt to free this sudden agony, but this acute state had him snared.

“AGH—” He screamed only once, gurgling a mixture containing vomit and foam.

His muscles had lost all control and he stumbled around the room with such terrible pain. Objects fell and broke all round him as every sinew within his body was electrified with excruciating pain. It was absolute Hell— something a simple poison could not inflict upon a mortal. This was something far greater.

Eventually, gravity had taken Gracey’s weight down to the cold hard tiles within the study. His eyes blurred the images about him as he faded in and out of consciousness. Now, in a deep state of paralysis, he only twitched in an attempt to move. The agony had overcome his state, for death would shortly arrive. Blood creeped down his lips in a deep red stream, indicating internal bleeding.

As William Gracey heaved his last breaths on the ground and awaited death, a cold presence overcame him. From what his eyes and mind could barely comprehend, he noticed a black silhouette on the left side of him, carrying a fog-like shadow as it moved across his lens. It was no angel like he’d imagined.

Slowly, the unlighted entity dragged itself toward him, circling him like doomed prey. It drew closer and closer with terrible rapping rhythm until it stopped close to Gracey’s face. It seemed to heave a deep and terrible breath, something that made his soul quiver in terror. This was not Eleanor…

Unable to escape, Gracey drew his last, long breath and the dark entity took it in like life. It groaned with terrible pleasure as it watched Gracey’s mortal form fall limp on the floor, bottle and note still at hand. The rest of his soul was devoured and trapped in an endless cycle of fear and grief as the entity had seized it from its eternal rest. This terrible entity was the first to greet him in the afterlife.

A demon.

…

All the painful memories flooded back as he stared at the Hatbox Ghost with fear and terrible regret. He held no conception of time as he did once so, never quite snapping out of it, heavy and lifeless breath engulfing his ribcage.

“Well…William Gracey. Once again pestering your relatives…” The Hatbox Ghost’s voice came, which accompanied a grim smile upon his face.

William opened his mouth to say something but quickly stopped himself. He stuttered, not knowing what to say to the evil Spector that sat before him. He was wrong— he was just attempting to ease Dorian’s humiliation. But, he knew he was just trying to convince his mind otherwise.

“I—” William stammered.

“Perhaps I should put an end to your…pestering…hm?” The Hatbox Ghost shifted slightly in his seat.

And before another stutter could escape, William Gracey was forced from his seat beside his friends and led down the table to where Hatbox Ghosts’s ghoulish goons sat, right beside the looming dark spirit that had entrapped him for eternity.

William, though persisting in his defiance by stance, could only withstand the agonizing pain of resistance for so long. Eventually, he stayed seated in order to keep the agony he felt at bay. It was a terrible feeling— to have the devil force one’s spirit like a puppet. With a widened lens, William looked around at the entities he sat with. They all stared at him with an occulted hatred as the Hatbox Ghost sat to the right of him, encompassing sinful pride with every expression. William looked down almost immediately.

“You see…That’s much better now. No more pitifully distracting side shows that squander my valuable time…”

Dorian attempted to comfort William from across the table, but it was obvious that he wasn’t responding to anyone, too frightened to do so.

“Speaking of wasting time…” The dark spirit spoke with prolonged groans in between.

He watched as the footmen carried in a multitude of silver platters, all of which were covered quite beautifully. Every spirit watched as the food came in, curling in their chairs with loads of anticipation. Despite the Hatbox Ghost’s torturous, inhumane mannerisms, he still allowed the ghosts to dine through offerings. It was a sick way of manipulating naive souls, causing them to almost believe He cared for them.

Normally, the feast was carried out with a variety of specific smells and memories found only in the past lives of the spirits. Whether it was the meaty scent of Jambalaya, or the pungent and delectable crawfish Étouffée with crispy crab cakes, it was a dish fit for a soul. And of course, a subtle glass of red wine on the side never hurt anyone. He knew that of all entities.

However, something was quite different as soon as the silver platters were placed in a manner that appeared planned. William slowly turned his head curiously and noticed the Hatbox Ghosts’s rotten grin when he spoke.

“Finally…something to celebrate my success. Satiate my hunger…”

Gracey inhaled without breath and winced almost immediately at a sudden odor. With terrible speculation, his fears were eventually portrayed through every spirit within the room. The platters were lifted up, revealing the nightmare.

Upon the long table was a rotting corpse, still fresh in a sense that it gave off a significantly horrific odor of death and decay. On everyone’s plate was a random piece of it— a hand or cheek alike. However, a lifeless body formed across the table in front of the Hatbox Ghost. It was enough to make all the souls’ wretch back within their chairs or simply stare in shock. Even the hitchhikers and goons had sat in silence as they gazed back at their plates.

Many spirits watched in utmost terror as the Hatbox Ghost inhaled the putrid scent of the corpse as if it were a dessert. He let out a sickening cackle afterward as he pressed his palms against the table, his gloved hands squeezed involuntarily. It was absolutely horrid, and many of the souls would rather die again just to get away from the situation. Even Vincent, the Hatchet Ghost, found that ideal hard to resist.

The Hatbox Ghost then shifted his cruel gaze upon every expression, for he found a gruesome pride in the fact every spector had a new and profound fear of him. He traced his green tongue against his rotted teeth, chuckling in the back of his throat.

“What seems to be the matter? Haven’t any of you had your fair share of tartare before?”

The dark spirit bellowed out in maniacal laughter again shortly afterwards, akin to a madman, as he covered his chest as though he had a heart. Even when he joked, it was as if the sorrowful souls had perished again all those years ago.

“Please…let us dine together now on this fine evening…”

The Hatbox ghost adjusted within his seat as he began to remove his black gloves one finger at a time. He acted in a manner of which every ghost could watch him with grueling anticipation as he revealed his monstrous claws.

Too frightened to look upon his friends, William Gracey’s skeletal hands shook underneath the table as he stared onto his plate. He had to look more than once to realize it was. A heart— a mortal heart—on his plate, covered in an array of dull greens and purples. There wasn’t any blood pouring from what he could see, just holes deep within the ventricles and shriveled, brown fat encasing its shape. If he were alive he would have evacuated himself. But now, he just felt paralyzed as the heart gazed back at him quite menacingly.

It all made devastating sense as William watched the Hatbox Ghost’s prominent side-eye. It was as if He vouched for such a dish just to vex him. In fact, the dark spirit had been tormenting him ever since the beginning, and He would do the same now. There was always madness within Him, but it was madness with an underlying method to it. There was always something the Hatbox Ghost wanted.

Vincent among other ghosts continued to watch his master once he set his large talons upon the table. The dark spirit’s elbows and wrists ceased to touch the edge of the cloth, which was a rather polite courtesy. He even picked up the silverware neatly placed upon the cloth as he examined its condition. He brought the fork to his eye level and slowly turned it before his hands began to tremble subtly.

It was His humanity slowly disappearing.

Then, as if something had snapped within the Hatbox Ghost, immediately the pupils within his yellow eyes began to wane as he dropped the utensil. He then violently grabbed the atrocious corpse in his massive claws as he began to devour it vigorously, revealing his truly famished presence.

Some airless gasps and mourns could be heard from the ghosts present, for it was an utmost horrible sight to see. There was strenuous struggling within the dining room chairs as the souls attempted to get away, unable to watch the beast take fourth in His sinful actions.

The Hatbox Ghost’s eyes evinced his pleasure as his whole massive frame hunched forward, continuing to partake in the gluttony. He felt a joyous impulse as he saw the fluids of innocence flow through his fingertips.

William nearly gagged as he watched Him, thoroughly revolted by His manners. But he knew the Hatbox Ghost was cursed to feed off of the living and deceased alike, truly unable to enjoy memories of food He had once indulged in. He knew this dark spirit truly felt hunger—something that all of the trapped souls did not.

The ghost’s claws were covered in the grotesque green and brown coloration, but nevertheless, His talons grabbed what was left of the slimy entrails. He seemed to devour most of them within minutes. However, time was irrelevant in the realm of darkness, and to some ghosts, it felt like He was eating for hours on end.

The souls that sat nearest to the Hatbox Ghost were quickly splashed and dirtied by the gush of old blood and gruel. William Gracey couldn't help but shed tears of misery and pain of what had unraveled before him. He was filled with agony, for the lifeless corpse returned him to his constant bereavement.

Oh—Why must this be so! To live among Satans whilst Eleanor lived in the realm of kings and queens? Was she even watching from above? He felt torn apart at the thought of her forgetfulness of him, mangled from the infinite pain, with no hope and no home. This was not the region beyond as he was promised. This was Hell. Because, unlike the eternal dream, this was the land where souls dwelled in torment and agony, forced to watch the Hatbox Ghost take his share of blood, flesh, and marrow. It was, of course, the acrid flavor that He desired, barely enough to satisfy His superimposed gluttony. The way He ate was enough to degrade even the toughest of souls.

William Gracey kept his face hidden, reminiscent of his dread. Normally, the Hatbox Ghost’s goons would’ve helped out with his wicked pestering, but they were all strictly preoccupied with his latent ravening. It was enough of a distraction until Gracey started to sniffle. Goodness—why did he have to sniffle?

Nevertheless it was heard, which had caught the attention of the monster to the left of him. The Hatbox Ghost’s claws unsheathed the mess intertwined in them, which fell from his hands slowly like a bloodied slime. Then, He quickly looked toward William with an unkenneled pleasure.

William, who shielded himself from many lingering eyes, wiped the tears and purged the marks from his face in an attempt to alleviate his constant dismay. However, he couldn’t stop pouring himself out with dreary wet tears once he’d started, which was no help to him in the end.

The Hatbox Ghost slowly leaned closer to Gracey and smelt the almost tangible atmosphere around him. He emitted a terrible groan—the sound of a monster as he widened his mouth to taste the addictive sensation. His ghostly hair seemed to stick on end subtly. In the Ghost Realm, sensations were like memories that gave off the scent of nostalgia, sorrow or any other deep emotion as a replacement of taste. Of course, they weren’t as pungent as the feelings of mourning spirits and mortals. And how pungent grief was to Him.

It didn’t take long for the Hatbox Ghost to become addicted to it, eyes maddened with the same inherent voracious prodigality. Many ghouls and spirits attempted to leave their seats again, aware of the inevitable outcome of this display. Eventually, The Hatbox Ghost would lose any mannerisms he had previously held before dinner, and would leave behind a madman. This needed to be stopped before anyone was permanently harmed. Vincent quickly proposed this ideal as the evil spector moved Himself closer to Gracey.

“Now, Your Excellency— Master of the Realms— perhaps you should finish devouring your lovely meal?” Vincent exclaimed quickly.

Other spirits had started to add onto this distraction in an attempt to draw the Master of the House away from the stench of grief. However, The Hatbox Ghost had already started to drool ferociously with every spectacle matching his inward appearance.

“Yes!— I think we all enjoyed the courtesy of your meal! Perhaps we should be excused before you—”

“SILENCE!” He roared.

And presently, not a sound was heard afterward, other than the mourns of William Gracey, who’d attempted to cease his internal dilemmas rather quickly.

William shut his eyes and only sniffled now that he had shielded his rather robustious cries. Though it was hard, he couldn’t let the demon before him get what He desired so desperately and with such ease. Even with eternal blackness to cloud out his vision, William pictured Him perfectly. It was disturbing how every component was laid out within his mind with no comparison to a painting. And it was that same painting that had been stuck within his mind ever since he’d died so many decades ago.

Slowly, the evil spirit made His way towards William Gracey, not hesitating to push his chair away from the long table. As He stood tall over William, many heads turned in utter terror, for they knew they were nothing against the wrath of their unwilling Master. This was quickly proven as Hatbox Ghost looked at everyone with a sudden animalistic fury.

“…What are you all looking at?! DINE!” He spat.

Almost suddenly, every ghost took up their forks and knives like puppets that feasted without hunger or desire. It was such an ugly sight to anyone, even the deceased, that some spirits would much rather suffer for years trapped inside an airtight box than have to face eating the remnants of a human. The spitting of sludge and crunching of bones was a bitter enmity to anyone forced to participate or even listen, the crimes justified only by Hell itself. After all, it was His realm now.

Even William was forced to take up the fork. He unwillingly sliced off a stiff piece of the old, wretched heart, much like the rest of the thralled spirits, forced to bring it to his tongue and eat it. Nothing in the mortal realm before prepared him for the disgust as he began to chew without will. Every empty tear fell to the floor without a stain, almost as if every one of them meant nothing in a dimension of infinite sorrow. They were tears in the rain, pointless to remember even if they meant something. Once William swallowed with great misery, he’d given into the inevitable that was The Hatbox Ghost’s eternal torment.

“—Why…” William had said rhetorically with a cloudy and woeful expression.

He spoke aloud but with little volume, for his spirit felt low and chained from within. It was more than just a spell that he and the ghosts were under— it was a curse. A terrible curse.

As if the deathly dimension couldn't take any more away from him, William was quickly torn from his seat by a large set of claws that had tightened painfully around the rest of his torso. He yelled only once, before the large hands suffocated him as if he had air to breathe. He couldn’t escape it.

The Hatbox Ghost ceased his terrible laughter as he neared William Gracey to his monstrous facade. His ferocious and lifeless breath exited the emptiness of his nose cavity. It was truly His face altogether that expressed His violent yearning towards such helpless and innocent souls. There was no exaggeration as He savored the grieving spirit’s aroma grotesquely, full of content.

“Mmm…You smell of…Misery…”

It was William's fragrance of grief that He’d found irresistible. It was enough to impose the sins of Gluttony and Lust simultaneously. What a mistake it was to show this heartfelt pain. He’d begun to feed a demon.

“…In-toxicating…”

William felt his ghostly form ripple painfully as the Hatbox Ghost took fourth in his own obscenities. He fed off Gracey’s grief, which caused his spirit to cripple and lose all thoughts that were dear to him during the process. The love he held for his friends turned sour, into dread and sorrow instead. He began to focus on Eleanor’s death once again.

“Leave him alone!” One of the maids screamed toward the Hatbox Ghost with a small spark of resistance.

The Hatbox Ghost let out a deep chuckle as he violently grabbed Williams neck instead, allowing him to dangle midair. William let out a strained noise as the grasp tightened like a serpent around his neck, firm and constricting.

“Oh, you really care for him, don’t you?…” The Hatbox Ghost’s voice seemed to grow darker as he gazed at the parlor maid with monsterous eyes.

“…Willing to share the same fate?…”

Suddenly, the maiden fell into the floor that stretched open beneath her. She let out a shrill scream of terror as she fell into a large pit of black sand that emitted a dark aura. The ghosts around her gasped audibly as some peered into the gaping hole next to them, which began to fill up quickly and swallow up the poor soul. Her screams ceased as the floor closed up afterward with a strike of lightning from outside.

The Hatbox Ghost let out a horrendous, boisterous laughter afterward, and it was clear he gained sickening satisfaction from the event.

William gripped at the Hatbox Ghost, almost in a pleading manner, desperate to be set free from the torment. This elicited the dark spirit to focus his gaze back toward him. He bared his slimy teeth as He fought His ferocious desire to confiscate and devour Gracey’s kind spirit in an instant.

Even in sorrow, William was so full of life—brilliant and caring—everything Hatbox Ghost was not. But He was patient.

“Don’t you recall…that night…” The Hatbox Ghost muttered as he neared William’s face closer to his own.

William scrunched his expression horribly as he struggled to relieve himself from the monster's grip. His translucent, skeletal fingers grappled the Master’s tough dark claws in an attempt to relieve himself from the constant, agonizing restriction.

“The night Eleanor deserted you…” The Hatbox Ghost whispered through a chuckle.

His eyes fiercely studied William’s, for He still desired much more delicious grief from him. William quickly felt the torment burn down on his soul again, which had forced his sorrowful tears to pool in his sockets. And those terrible words repeated endlessly within his head. It was all his fault…

“She never loved you…” The Hatbox Ghost uttered through a masked grin, eyes pulsating with a strange, yellow aura. Soon, He would get what He desired. And how He deserved it.

Gracey mouthed “no,” too weak to project any resistance. Even if he were a strong and enduring spirit, nothing could withstand the excruciation of this Devil.

“…She…left you here, allowing your torment. To waste away and rot in your own home…Just to suffer.” His words came again like poison.

William let out a strained sob as he shut his eyes. The misery was almost too much to bear, for tears began to stream rapidly down his face without an end, almost forced out. The Hatbox Ghost’s eyes widened at the tormented soul with an exhilarated pleasure. Only He noticed the visible aura of misery and grief illuminated around William. This is what he longed for.

William kept his eyes shut tight as he felt the Hatbox Ghost lean in towards him. He could feel a demented chill wash over his spectral form as he realized quickly that he was being drained of his life force slowly—feasted upon.

William understood the enslavement he constantly found himself under—all willing souls shared this fate. Many of the willing souls He fed on were wasted away into entities too weak to move or speak. In other words, they only existed for Him and his desires to satiate Himself. They were the true course— the reason why the Hatbox Ghost hosted the demeaning dinners. Why was he to be damned for all eternity this way, devoured into nothingness—Left with empty torture and grief?

The Hatbox Ghost groaned pleasantly as he began to consume William’s soul, exhausting him in the process. His jaws opened extensively whilst he drew in the concentrated anguish and suffering from Gracey. It roused and stirred the madness within, rather thrilling to Him.

“You’re…Mine!” He growled.

The Hatbox Ghost wheezed airily as he took in another lifeless breath full of grief and pain. lightning crackled in a much more electrified manner outside the windows, which had flashed in strange shapes of purple and green. Every loud crack against the immaterial realm sent a shrill scream of terror throughout the dining room, adding onto His deranged symphony.

Even Vincent, the Hatchet Ghost, had taken recognition of this most demonic sight, watching his very nephew waine and weep as he was feasted upon by the new Master of the house. He couldn’t help feeling an indiscretion deep within his spectral form, for he found the execution incredibly hard to watch. He suddenly intervened on behalf of any ghost unwilling to make the sacrifice.

“Master— Must you stop this…this madness?!”

A jolt of loud thunder was heard afterwards, silenced through the ferocious stare of the Hatbox Ghost. His beady, yellow, and menacing eyes were enough to stop any mortal heart— any soul’s at that. And it sent a terrible, antagonizing might that stunned Vincent into a state of pure shock. The only movement he could bear was his own trembling. It was only through this reaction that The Hatbox Ghost temporarily recessed his gruesome mannerisms, snarling as he spat.

“You DARE…disrupt ME?!”

The Demon roared with great severity towards the Hatchet Ghost among the other trembling spirits. The dining room had darkened all around them and all fears had been brought forth to their salacious Master. William, still trapped beneath the claws of the massive spector, held only the strength to look toward Vincent Gracey, who stood his ground even in fear. He winced in appealing agony with tears that could’ve burned at his skin if he were still alive. Why was he doing this for him— a ghost weak and pathetic beyond comparison? This was all his fault…

“Sir—” Vincent had managed to say before the fear had restricted his lifeless vocal chords.

Although he loathed his nephew, he couldn’t face the fact that he too was a willing soul just like him.

And how He craved the Willing.

“Even my most…Loyal adversary…Seeking to betray Me?…”

The Hatbox Ghost sifted himself towards the Hatchet ghost with William Gracey still snared in between his massive talons, much like a hawk with its prey. He bared His gray, rotten teeth at the demented, meek spirit with no desire to blink even once. The darkened aura seemed to engulf most of His cape now as if to stretch His shadow across the room, which gave Him a much larger expression than before.

“Of…of course not—” Vincent managed to speak.

The darkness around him started to crawl close to the putrid scar embedded across his fleshy, green neck. It made him grunt due to the sudden enforced agony.

“You’re not…caring for him, are you now? Much like…the others?”

The Evil Spector studied the Hatchet Ghost’s perturbed expression, His eyes enticed with such insanity and deception, they were enough to entrance any ghost who gazed directly at them. Every spirit hid their eyes from Him. All except Vincent Gracey.

“I…” Vincent muttered, enraptured by the Hatbox Ghost’s pulsating yellow eyes. He couldn’t resist them.

William Gracey watched in horror as his relative fell under the hypnotic and tractable spell. His eyes— Why must he look into those eyes?! He had almost seen Vincent Gracey’s true self, shrouded out within an instant through the manipulative power of the Hatbox Ghost. He almost had his uncle back. He almost had hope.

“Besides…I won’t be the one to help you when you’ll inevitably pay him for your actions…Right?…” He chuckled.

The Hatbox Ghost restated the Hatchet Ghost’s previous statement to William Gracey as if He’d known of their recent encounter. It sent a petrified chill down William’s spine.

He listens. He heard everything. And all roads lead to Him in the end…

The Hatchet Ghost strangely inhaled as the darkness faded around him, seemingly done with him. Then, those hypotonic clouds ceased within his eyes and revealed the same bitterness William Gracey had always seen in him. Hatred.

“...Of course, Master. Thank you for your…assistance.”

William Gracey faintly struggled within the Hatbox Ghost’s claws and watched as the Hatchet Ghost got up from his seat without hassle. It was quite alarming for the rest of the sorrowful souls, still glued to their seats without content. It was a statement which meant the loyal were favored over the enslaved. A terrible statement that meant one had to give into the dark spirit’s bidding just to be free. It was all an illusion, however. No one was free.

The Hatbox Ghost’s perpetual smile sneered all the more wider, now that the Hatchet Ghost had gazed at William with such unpleasantness. It made William shed more empty tears, no longer recognizing Vincent Gracey in those addhorrent, misshapen eyes.

“What do you think of…poor William Gracey now?…” The Hatbox Ghost snarled in his guttural voice.

Presently, He lowered William Gracey back down to the hard tiles so that Vincent could gaze upon him. William’s knees buckled from his lack of strength, kneeling as he held a heavily depleted expression. The Hatbox Ghost still kept an intense hold of his neck and torso while he wheezed, watching Vincent walk up to him with a sadistic grin upon his face.

For a moment, the Hatchet Ghost lingered his daunting smile at William Gracey, who had no choice but to gaze back with tired eyes. After a moment of silence, he spoke…

“I want him to…suffer…” He spoke through an inhale.

“I want to…watch you break him. Only I…”

Vincent’s voice was layered with darkness as he knelt down in front of his tormented relative. What was said was something imparable and vile, addressed to no one except the once luminescent soul before him. Now, he was nothing but an eternal feast for the demon before him.

“…And let the others’ blindness overcome them with a fear far greater than the sweet escape of closure…” The Hatchet Ghost added, looking up to his dark ruler.

William shook with a sunken head, eyes glassy and darkened by the condition of his very being. He could only listen to the quaked voices of his fellow friends, for they too always winded up paying for his actions. Why must this always be so? This was all his fault. Always his fault.

“What a…pleasant surprise…” The Hatbox Ghost uttered through an utmost sinister chuckle.

He was infatuated by the animosity He’d caused between a once happy family. How he loved the capability of destruction caused by His own making. He was a monster, vain and vile, created with misanthropic power and the disposition for committing atrocity.

“Wouldn’t you agree…William? He bellowed.

The dark spirit hunched down with a most wretched snarl, one claw upon the floor, while his eyes gazed upon William Gracey. He was once again lifted off the ground with such ease and carried back towards the Hatbox Ghost’s mummified facade. It was acrid and dark, his face. Void of any life or pleasantry it had once possessed in a forgotten timeline. His nose cavities enlarged after every powerful, lifeless inhale, eyes but yellow fragments of hellfire as they stared back at William. William had made no effort to voice out even a feeble ‘no,’ too dreadfully exhausted to do so. All he could muster was a heart-wrenching stare at the dark spirit before him, eyes blurred from tears.

“Well then. I shall see to this manner…personally. Within a more…confined setting...”

As the Hatbox Ghost straightened himself up back into his menacing, overbearing stance, he fixed his eyes upon every quivering ghost and spirit within the room that had watched the grimful spectacle commence. He groaned and bared his spear-like teeth as he made his gaze known across the room, then inevitably stopped at William’s acquaintances.

Victor, the Flutist, and Dorian Gracey couldn’t help but share the same alarmed expression with each other, the rules made known to all of them clearly. The Master was never wrong. The Master was always listening. And if He shall ever look upon you with greatness, He will do so with great reason. And ‘great’, He was. It was this final oath that had made them tremble with anticipation.

The darkness began to ripple throughout the massive dining hall, which had echoed its deathly sweet lullaby into the infinite chambers of the mansion. Sometimes it thundered like lightning or rippled akin to waves. Nevertheless, it taunted every soul under His mighty curse. Haunted them.

“Oh, I hate to be a terrible host and run, but I do think it’s time for me to go. You see, I have some…important matters to attend to…”

The Hatbox Ghost’s aura had begun to ripple and mystify him as he took a gradual step back from the chair that was his throne. Everyone had eyes on the Master of the house as he took William Gracey with him into the blackness that had been summoned. The Hatchet Ghost was beside his Master, and observed as the black veins started to crawl and intertwine around them. Although it was inevitable to show fear, he’d embraced it long long ago: something his nephew did not.

“Enjoy the dinner…Ta-ta, now…” The Hatbox Ghost muttered in an exaggerated voice.

The dark spirit quickly dematerialized within His own darkness alongside the other two spirits. He always spoke the final word. Even after He’d vanished just as elegantly as He’d come, no one was allowed to leave until they were finished with their dish. And Every ghoul alike held this deep and unforgiving punishment, the solemn supper being only the beginning of it all.

Many had known what this celebration had meant, for it was all loud and clear what the Hatbox Ghost had in store for the delicious mortal souls entrapped within the mansion. Eventually, they would all share the same fate as every ghost had—forced to abide by the dark spector’s command. And the willing souls? The willing were special to Him; potent to Him. It was something He craved ever since his arrival, something eternal that would fuel his insatiable hunger for more. Because, unlike the mortal realm, there was no escape from the infinite oblivion waiting for them on the other side.

And how He waited ever so patiently…

…

#my art #haunted mansion #haunted mansion 2023 #the haunted mansion #disney #hatbox ghost #alistair crump #the hatbox ghost #digital illustration #digital art #story #stories #artists on tumblr

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hale-of-stiles-heart · 3 months

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comfort and chamomile

my first finished bg3 fic! Astarion x f!Tav, just something a lil fluffy with some comfort! really hope you enjoy it! also on ao3! tagging the amazing @spokir hope you enjoy getting to finally have some Tav fic!

It’s been hours since they’ve made camp for the night but Tav’s been annoyingly absent, disappearing into her tent the moment she finished pitching it, never to re-emerge that day. Astarion can’t help the way he finds himself frowning as he lounges outside of his own tent, taking advantage of the afternoon sunshine to read. His eyes occasionally flicker over to Tav’s tent, as though willing her to emerge and come sit by his side as she usually does during evenings at camp.

Alas, apparently the tadpole wriggling around the recesses of his mind doesn’t grant him the ability to summon his lover through sheer force of will. Shame, that.

The rest of their party is clustered around the fire blazing in the center of camp as Gale works on preparing dinner, looking more witch than wizard as he stirs a large pot of simmering soup. The savory scent of sauteed venison and wild carrot and potato seasoned with rosemary and thyme wafts throughout camp, appetizing enough it’s a wonder Tav hasn’t slipped out of her tent to gather with the others in anticipation of their meal. Astarion’s frown deepens.

It had been yet another long day, hours of hiking overhill through the wilderness as they edged ever closer to Baldur’s Gate, up at the very crack of dawn just to immediately hit the road, barely taking time for a quick breakfast. Fortunately, they hadn’t run into any trouble along the way, no fiends offering deals or bloodthirsty worgs ambushing them, but it was a draining day nonetheless. Now, with Tav holed up in her tent, Astarion can’t help but be rather annoyed by her uncharacteristic absence, so accustomed to Tav being by his side as they laze around camp.

Even if they weren’t actively conversing, focused on their own diversions and self-appointed chores, they always seemed to gravitate towards each other, Astarion reading while she sewed ripped tunics and trousers or had her nose buried in her sketchbook. Other times, they talked about whatever came to mind, Astarion regaling her with tidbits of tawdry city gossip or continuing to teach her how to embroider.

There were often evenings spent sipping wine while reading together or playing with each other’s hair, Tav playing with his meticulously maintained curls while he attempted to tame her riotous mass of curls into a thick braid so she could sleep without her hair becoming a bird’s nest overnight. It was all very domestic. Sickeningly so, truly.

Never did Astarion think he would enjoy something so banal, let alone actually miss it when he was suddenly without it for an evening, but now with Tav nowhere to be found, he finds himself aching with the absence of it. He can’t stand it, the niggling dissatisfaction left by Tav’s truancy, the irrational worry that he had somehow done something wrong, something that would keep her away. Feeling inexplicably neglected and more than a bit petty, wrestling with the maelstrom of confused emotion roiling inside him, Astarion abruptly stands from his nest of cushions, snapping his book shut and carelessly tossing it aside.

It’s a rather short walk to Tav’s tent, the two of them typically setting up their tents across from or directly beside one another. It simply makes sense considering how often he slips into her tent for a little midnight snack, as well as some other nocturnal extracurricular activities.

Walking only a stone’s throw away, Astarion strides over to the entrance of Tav’s tent, poking his head inside, a snarky comment already on the tip of his tongue. But the words wither and die before he can so much as open his mouth as soon as he catches sight of Tav.

He had expected to find her absorbed in something mundane like darning a pair of Wyll’s socks or filling the pages of her thick sketchbook, reorganizing her pack or sharpening one of her many, many knives. Something innocuous that had managed to distract her enough to keep her from following her usual routine.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he finds her lying in the middle of her small tent on her bedroll, dressed down in her modest camp clothes. She’s lying on her side, curled up in a tight ball, practically hugging her knees to her chest. Her arms are loosely crossed on her pillow, her face buried in the crook of her elbow. Her hands are curled so tightly in the threadbare fabric of her pillowcase that her knuckles are bone white. Very softly, he can hear her let out a small sniff, followed by a faint, but pained, groan.

Immediately, all of Astarion’s annoyance vanishes as he looks at her, clearly uncomfortable and in terrible pain. It must be one of her migraines. This one must be especially bad. It’s perfectly obvious now that he’s belatedly recognizing the obvious signs; the way she’s sequestered herself in her tent, entry flaps closed to block out the intense afternoon sunlight, keeping her distance from the lively conversation around the fire.

Astarion’s chest aches as he looks down at Tav curled up in so much pain, wishing he could do something to help, that he could just take it all away, magically make it all better. He considers lying down beside her and pulling her into his arm, wants to stroke her messy hair and rub circles onto her back, anything he can think of to try to soothe her the way she does when he wakes in the middle of the night because of night terrors full of Cazador’s face and the echoing voices of his previous victims.

But he hesitates, not sure if Tav would welcome the touch or company in her current state, not wanting to exacerbate her pain or amplify her discomfort. Frown returning in full force, Astarion reluctantly retreats, carefully closing the tent flap to shut out the sunlight.

He lingers just outside Tav’s tent for a moment, gears turning in his mind as he tries to formulate a plan of attack. It doesn’t exactly come naturally, caring about another person, anticipating their needs, especially outside of the bedroom.

He’s not exactly a dutiful, generous friend like Karlach or Wyll, isn’t a healer like Shadowheart or Halsin, isn’t even dogged or determined enough to even attempt to be either like Lae’zel. But he does have plenty of experience with pain. He knows Tav does, as well, tight-lipped though she is about the exact details. The mere thought lights a proverbial fire beneath his feet and not a heartbeat later he’s hurrying back over to his own tent to rifle through his things, random bits and bobs he’s collected on their journey, either for their potential resale value or simply because he’d been able to get away with nicking them.

He combs through his bags until he finds the small copper tea kettle he’d swiped from the last village they’d passed through, humming in triumph when he does. Tea kettle and mismatched teacup in hand, he ventures back over to the fire and their gathered companions. He ignores Gale’s squawk of indignation as he helps himself to one of the large burlap sacks the wizard keeps their food supplies in. Rolling his eyes, Astarion snaps, “Oh, relax! I’m just looking for some tea. And some honey. Maybe a lemon. Do we have any ginger?”

“Is soldier okay?” Karlach asks, face pinched with genuine concern for her friend, nearly pouting. On either side of her, Halsin and Wyll mirror her expression, frowning in worry, Tav’s absence as glaringly obvious to the rest of camp as it was to Astarion.

“Just fine, darling. Nasty migraine,” Astarion dismisses, thumbing through the large tin of various tea bags Gale keeps on hand — one of the only benefits of keeping the wizard around in Astarion’s less-than-humble opinion — hoping they have some of the herbal blend Tav prefers when her head aches. “Thought I’d bring her some tea. Set aside some dinner for her.”

So absorbed in his single-minded search, Astarion misses the look Shadowheart and Karlach exchange, pursing their lips and smiling at each other almost conspiratorially. Clearing her throat, Shadowheart offers, “I have some more of those ginger chews if you’d like to bring her some.”

“And I’ve some honey for her tea,” Halsin adds with one of his unfalteringly friendly smiles, already reaching for his nearby bag.

“Oh!” Astarion blinks owlishly as he looks up from where he’s kneeling, Shadowheart and Halsin already passing him their contributions. He glances down at the offerings, not quite sure what to say, a bit stunned by their earnest eagerness to help relieve Tav’s pain, their willingness to help him with no questions asked or insults hurled. He swallowed thickly. “Well. I’m certain she’ll thank you both profusely, sweetheart that she is.”

He’s spared from trying to formulate a straightforward thank you of his own, the authenticity making him squirm, when Gale starts ladling out bowls of hearty stew, dutifully handing them out. Carefully balancing his bowl on his knee, Wyll passes Astarion their enchanted thermos for Tav’s portion of dinner, ensuring it’ll stay hot until she’s feeling well enough to eat, her migraines often accompanied by terrible nausea. With the cooking pot set aside to be washed later, Astarion sets up the kettle over the fire, setting aside the teacup with a bag of tea at the ready.

While the water boils, Astarion busies himself with bustling around the camp while their companions eagerly tuck into their supper. He slips the small bag of ginger chews into his pocket and retrieves his discarded book, occupying himself by fiddling with the cracked spine of the book and the wooden lid of the jar of honey, willing the water to heat quicker. The tadpole doesn’t offer him any help in that regard, either. Once the water’s finally boiled, Astarion rushes over to pour it into the prepared teacup, drizzling a generous dollop of honey into it before tossing the jar back to Halsin, the druid’s heightened reflexes on display as he effortlessly snags it out of the air without missing a beat. With everything prepared, Astarion gathers it all up: thermos tucked under his arm, his book in one hand, steaming cup of tea in the other. Turning on his heel with a grateful nod to their companions, he starts back towards Tav’s tent, pausing for a moment as another thought occurs to him, clicking his dog and calling over his shoulder, “Dog!”

Scratch tips his head to the side where he sits by Halsin, looking up at the druid with baleful eyes while begging for scraps. After a split second of hesitation, Scratch stands and jogs over to follow Astarion, the owlbear cub toddling after him in turn, the two of them a nigh inseparable pair.

Quietly as possible, Astarion pulls aside one of the entry flaps of Tav’s tent, wincing when Tav whines again from her bedroll, the pain clearly not abating on its own. Scratch immediately pads into the tent, making a beeline to Tav’s side. He plops down beside her with a soft sympathetic whine, his cold nose pressed against her elbow. The owlbear cub waddles after him with a low trilling churr, curling up on Tav’s other side, pressing its back to hers as it curls into a tight fluffy ball.

Astarion slips into the tent as well, closing the flap behind him. He remains by the entrance of the tent, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he just watches Tav. She sluggishly relaxes a bit, stretching out her legs with a sigh and shifting closer to Scratch. She uncrosses her arms with another sigh, throwing an arm around Scratch’s shoulders, fingers lazily brushing through the thick fur at his nape. Scratch responds in kind, sniffing at her face before dragging his tongue over her cheek in an affectionate doggy kiss. Astarion wrinkles his nose but Tav breathes a soft laugh, her voice a bit rough as she asks, “Hey, Scratch, what’re you doing in here?”

Smile returning, Astarion clears his throat as he steps father into the tent, stepping around the owlbear cub. There’s a spare cushion by the cub’s head, a tufted circular pillow in a creamy shade of white, one of the many Astarion’s collected during their journey. Astarion helps himself to it, carefully setting the tea and thermos down, reaching into his pocket to fish out the bag of ginger chews before lowering himself onto the cushion to sit.

Tav hums as she awkwardly rolls over, having to gracelessly wriggle around now that she’s sandwiched between her four-legged darlings. Once she’s gotten comfortable in her new position, burying a hand in the cub’s downy neck feathers, she opens her eyes with a wince and raises her head to squint up at Astarion.

She looks exhausted when Astarion finally sees her face, her smile weak and shaky, exhaustion evident in her eyes and the furrow of her forehead, fly-away curls falling in her face. But her voice is sweet as ever, if not a bit reedy, as she breathes, “Astarion… Hi…”

“Hello, darling,” Astarion greets with his usual near purr of a drawl, keeping his voice low in deference to her pounding head. He can’t resist reaching out to brush a wayward curl off the curve of her cheek, his fingers lingering on her skin to bask in the simple delight of just touching her. His chest aches at the way she leans into his touch, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as she hums. He smiles at her fondly, adoringly, sure his infatuation is writ across his face.

“Brought you a little something,” he tells her, voice low. “Aside from your adoring furry fans.”

He moves the cup of tea closer until it’s within arm’s reach but not close enough to the owlbear cub to arouse its insatiable curiosity. Tav makes a soft sound of acknowledgment, eyes flitting closed for a long moment as she inhales the herbal bouquet of the tea. “Mmm, chamomile?”

“With wildflower honey,” Astarion confirms, preening to himself at how well he’s remembered her preferences when her smile deepens. He motions at the thermos and bag of candied ginger. “And there’s some stew for whenever you’re ready for supper. And Shadowheart gave me some of those ginger chews you like so much.”

“Oh, thank you,” Tav says softly, lowering her head back down to press her cheek against the thick plumage of the cub’s shoulder, smiling up at Astarion so sweetly it makes his chest ache, an odd fluttering sensation in his stomach.

His tongue feels thick and awkward in his mouth, all of his practiced lines evaporating into thin air in the face of her guileless sincerity. He has to lick his suddenly dry lips before he can manage what he hopes is an effortlessly charming, “Of course, darling! Anything for my favorite little treat.”

Tav lets out a low sigh, her soft smile persisting. As much as he hungers for her presence, the simple pleasure of her quiet company, enough to send him into such a tizzy earlier, he doesn’t want to disturb her. She’s earned her rest a hundred times over, deserves some time to herself to recuperate and relax. Stroking his knuckles over her cheek, he offers, “I’ll leave you be now, love. I trust you’ll be safe and comfortable with your loyal bodyguards in attendance but if you need anything, just call for me, I won’t be far.”

He begins to rise from his seat but Tav lets out a displeased noise, clumsily reaching out towards him, her fingertips only just grazing the cool skin of his wrist. He immediately freezes, eyes meeting hers, worried something’s terribly wrong. Her voice is a bit hesitant as she entreats, “Wait. Don’t go.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you, my love?” He asks, watching the way her brows furrow, always so very reluctant to ask for anything for herself she deemed selfish or too indulgent, no matter how important it was to her. Never had Astarion ever imagined himself playing nursemaid, especially not willingly, but for Tav… Hells, for Tav, brewing her tea and spoon-feeding her soup was the least of what he would do. For Tav, he would wait on hand and foot, attend to all her needs and all of her seldom expressed needs. And all with only minor complaining.

“Just… Could you just stay?” She asks quietly, absently stroking her hand down the owlbear cub’s back where downy feathers give way to thick brown fur. Her cheeks pinken rather adorably as she adds, “ Maybe you could read to me? Or just talk? I… You know I like your voice. I, uh, I might end up falling asleep but… I’d like you to stay. If you want.”

If Astarion’s heart wasn’t the cold dead thing it was, he was sure it would be bursting at her words. Such a simple request, spoken with all the gravity of a solemn confession, a plea for absolution. It’s humbling. Something he’s determined to never take for granted.

“Well, when you put it like that! It’d be rather cruel of me to leave now, wouldn’t it?” He drawls, flashing his fangs as he sends her a haughty, flirtatious smile. He’s already cracking open his book as he shifts on his cushion, getting more comfortable. He notices the way her smile falters for a moment, quick to reassure her, “And yes, before you ask, I want to stay, I’m not just playing pity the sick girl.”

His chest fills with warmth even sweeter than sunshine as she smiles up at him as though he had just lassoed the moon and all the stars down from the sky just to present them to her. He’s rather tempted to do just that if it made her keep smiling at him like that.

Feeling as though he’s been set alight by her affection, he reaches down to gently card his fingers through her long curls as he begins to read, trying his damnedest not to feel like a complete lovesick fool as he reads nothing but love poem after love poem until the sun has long since set and Tav’s migraine is no more than a rather unpleasant memory.

#baldur's gate 3 #astarion #astarion x tav #baldur's gate 3 fic #bg3 fic #tavstarion #fic #my fic #amber writes

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